FENTIAE 


POS 

by 

KATHRENE 


PINKERTON 


PENITENTIARY    POST 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  AHGBLES 


"Phil  did  not  doubt  for  a  minute  that  Solomon  Moses  was 
dead  he  had  been  literally  torn  to  pieces." 


PENITENTIARY  POST 

BY 
KATHRENE  AND  ROBERT  PINKERTON 


FRONTISPIECE 

BY 
RALPH    PALLEN    COLEMAN 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ20,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF 
TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES- 
INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  THE  RIDGWAY  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    YOUTH 3 

II.  Two  BARS  ON  THE  MAGNET    ...  19 

III.  PHIL  GETS  His  POST 26 

IV.  THE  CHALLENGE 40 

V.     PENITENTIARY  POST 52 

VI.  THE  SPECTRE  OF  FORT  DEASE.     .     .  63 

VII.    THE  WEETEEGO 79 

VIII.  THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK.     ...  92 

IX.  THE  WEETEEGO'S  LAST  ATTACK    .     .  105 

X.    SOLOMON  MOSES 121 

XL    THE  SPLINTERED  BONE 139 

XII.     PHIL  REFUSES  HELP 153 

XIII.  "SHE  Dm  THAT  TO  ME"   .     .     .     .  167 

XIV.  PHIL'S  PLANS  AND  WICKSON     .     .     .  183 
XV.    THE  WHITE  DESERT 193 

XVI.    SOLOMON'S  TRAIL 205 

XVII.  WICKSON  TELLS  OF  His  LOVE.     .     .  215 

XVIII.  SOLOMON  GETS  His  MEAT  ....  232 


2131933 


PENITENTIARY    POST 


PENITENTIARY  POST 


CHAPTER  I 

YOUTH 

PHILIP    BOYNTON   had    seen   two   white 
men  in  a  year  and  a  half.     He  had  arrived 
at  the  Split  Falls  post  of  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company   on   the   last   ice    of  the   spring,   hav- 
ing been  rushed  in  by  a  wise  old  district  manager 
who  saw  in  Phil's  apparently  mutinous  demeanour 
merely  the  expression  of  a  need  of  something 
difficult  to  do. 

That  difficult  task,  the  routing  of  a  particularly 
ingenious  and  energetic  opposition,  had  kept  Phil 
from  going  out  with  the  fur  brigade  in  the  summer. 
He  did  not  regret  his  non-attendance  at  the  gather- 
ing of  the  post-managers  at  district  headquarters 
because  he  was  too  actively  engaged  in  the  con- 
summation of  a  plot  born  of  the  devilishness  of  his 
own  pent-up  energy  and  enthusiasm. 

As  a  result  of  this  plot  the  too-ambitious  Free- 
trader had  been  glad  to  accept  Phil's  offer  of  pro- 
tection from  a  mysteriously  enraged  band  of 
Indians  and  even  more  glad  to  get  out  of  the 
country  at  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company's  expense. 


4  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Phil  charged  the  item  to  "extension  of  trade," 
making  a  place  for  it  in  his  report  blank.  He  was 
particularly  pleased  with  himself,  for  he  had  given 
a  new  twist  to  an  old  trick  of  fur  land,  that  land 
where  two  hundred  years  of  precedent  have  devel- 
oped a  code  of  ethics  entirely  in  keeping  with  the 
harshness  and  the  loneliness  of  the  land  itself. 

This  little  business  out  of  the  way  and  the 
Indians  properly  impressed  with  the  reprehensible- 
ness  of  their  disaffection,  Phil  began  to  look  for- 
ward to  the  annual  New  Year's  gathering  of  post- 
managers.  His  was  the  most  distant  post  of  the 
district  and  he  would  have  to  start  December 
first.  The  last  week  in  November  an  epidemic  of 
hydrophobia  wiped  out  all  the  dogs  in  his  yard  and 
he  was  forced  to  settle  down  to  an  eventless  and 
mailless  winter. 

The  winter  passed,  as  those  dark,  cold,  inter- 
minable winters  have  passed  with  countless 
managers  of  isolated  Hudson's  Bay  Company 
posts  for  more  than  two  hundred  years,  and 
summer  brought  with  it  the  triumphant  journey 
of  the  fur-laden  brigade.  For  Phil's  three  York 
boats  would  be  laden  as  never  before  in  the  history 
of  the  post. 

Only  Phil  did  not  go  out  with  the  brigade.  The 
Company's  flag  was  not  run  to  the  top  of  the 
flagpole  to  indicate  the  departure  of  the  post- 
manager.  Instead,  that  ruler  of  a  little  wilderness 
kingdom  lay  flat  on  his  back  in  the  dwelling  house, 
alternately  listening  to  the  excited  chatter  of  the 


YOUTH  5 

thirty  Indian  boatmen  and  cursing  the  broken  leg 
that  lay  motionless  beneath  the  weight  of  a  dun- 
nage bag  filled  with  sand. 

It  was  fall  when  the  brigade  returned.  Phil 
was  walking  without  even  a  limp,  due  to  the  skill 
of  his  Indian  servant,  and  was  the  first  to  greet 
the  boatmen  and  receive  the  precious  bag  with  a 
whole  year's  mail.  He  gave  hurried,  excited 
directions  for  the  unloading,  dealt  out  a  regale  for 
the  crew  with  a  scandalously  reckless  hand  for  so 
distant  a  post,  and  then  ran  with  a  schoolboy's 
skip  and  jump  to  his  office  to  read  the  package  of 
letters. 

It  was  not  so  imposing  a  bundle  as  one  might 
expect.  Few  of  us  receive  more  personal  letters 
than  we  write,  and  when  mail  days  are  usually  six 
months  apart  our  correspondence  decreases  pro- 
portionately. The  first  few  years  of  separation 
are  exceptions,  but  Phil  had  seen  a  dozen  North- 
country  winters,  and  the  world  had  grown  very  far 
away. 

Nevertheless,  he  tossed  aside  impatiently  the 
long,  official  envelopes  of  the  Company,  tearing 
open  only  those  with  the  postmark  of  a  small 
English  city.  He  glanced  hastily  at  each,  com- 
menting excitedly  as  he  did  so. 

"Mother's  all  over  her  attack  of  the  grippe." 

(Mother  had  fully  recovered  eighteen  months 
before.) 

"Well,  think  of  that!     Little  Sis  to  be  married!" 

(Sis  was  already  the  mother  of  a  boy.) 


6  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"The  governor's  bought  a  motor-car.  Getting 
to  be  a  regular  sport." 

(The  governor  had  forgotten  that  car  com- 
pletely, in  the  possession  of  a  new  marvel.) 

"Uncle  Philip's  still  alive.  Some  folks  never 
die." 

(Uncle  Philip's  unaccountable  will,  by  which  he 
had  left  his  relatives  only  a  pound  each,  had  been 
in  court  a  year.) 

After  Phil  had  skimmed  the  cream  from  the 
news,  he  began  systematically  to  read  the  letters 
from  home.  It  was  dark  when  he  had  finished  and 
at  last  became  aware  of  his  housekeeper's  insistent 
calls  to  supper.  After  he  had  eaten  he  was  busy 
in  the  trading-shop  until  late,  paying  off  the  boat- 
men, dealing  out  goods  to  them  and  arranging  with 
the  Indian  hunters  for  their  annual  fall  debt. 

The  next  day  and  the  next  it  was  the  same.  All 
the  Indians  had  gathered  at  the  post  to  wait  for  the 
York  boats  and  were  eager  to  be  off  to  their  hunt- 
ing-grounds. At  the  end  of  the  third  day  the  last 
was  gone  and  Phil  remembered  the  official  mail 
for  the  first  time. 

There  wasn't  much  of  it,  and  some  of  it  was  old. 
He  glanced  through  it  rapidly,  scorning  the  sug- 
gestions contained,  eager  for  some  word  of  com- 
mendation because  of  his  triumph  over  the 
Freetrader  the  year  before.  The  signature  of  the 
second  letter  brought  him  up  with  a  start.  The 
wise  old  district  manager  was  no  longer  in  charge. 
His  successor  was  a  stranger. 


YOUTH  7 

Phil  read  more  carefully,  returning  to  a  letter  he 
had  only  glanced  at.  The  kindly,  almost  paternal, 
note  of  the  former  district  manager  was  lacking. 
He  had  understood  men,  the  peculiar  type  of  men 
bred  by  the  isolation  and  the  work  and  the  distort- 
ing influences  of  loneliness.  He  made  a  personal 
matter  of  a  purely  business  communication,  and  he 
was  loved  for  it. 

If  his  successor  understood  the  North  country 
and  its  people  he  did  not  show  it.  Because  Phil 
had  never  heard  of  him  he  jumped  at  the  con- 
clusion that  the  new  incumbent  was  an  upstart, 
officious,  conscious  of  his  position,  unreasonable 
in  his  demands.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  a 
simple  business  communication,  a  letter  of  instruc- 
tion untempered  by  a  note  of  friendliness.  It  was 
the  letter  of  a  stranger  to  a  stranger,  not  of  a  man 
to  a  man,  and  Phil's  indignation  increased  rapidly 
as  he  ran  through  three  more  of  the  same  sort. 

"Unbusinesslike  conduct  of  posts!"  he  ex- 
claimed when  he  had  finished.  "And  I've  just 
sent  in  more  fur  than  this  post  ever  sent  before." 

He  picked  out  another  irritating  clause. 

"'Unsystematic  nature  of  the  reports'!  What 
more  does  he  want  ?  I  told  everything  in  the  re- 
ports a  man  could  tell.  And  he  got  the  fur  and  he 
knows  how  much  goods  I  received." 

Then  a  new  one  caught  his  eye. 

There  has  been  a  failure  to  observe  certain  well- 
known  regulations  and  to  heed  more  recent  requests 


8  PENITENTIARY  POST 

as  to  the  nature  of  reports  desired.     More  strict  ad- 
herence to  business  methods  is  expected  in  the  future. 

Phil  stared  at  the  letter  in  open-mouth  astonish- 
ment. But  he  did  not  explode  again.  Instead 
came  a  sullen  resentment,  a  sombre  acerbity,  that 
grew  as  the  days  passed  and  he  read  and  reread  the 
obnoxious  communications. 

There  was  no  one  at  Split  Falls  post  with  whom 
Phil  could  discuss  what  he  considered  a  legitimate 
cause  for  righteous  indignation.  That  was  the 
trouble.  For  a  year  and  a  half  there  had  been  no 
one  with  whom  he  could  discuss  anything  of  impor- 
tance. In  those  eighteen  months  he  had  seen 
only  two  white  men,  the  Freetrader  whose  de- 
parture had  been  so  hurried,  and  a  geological 
survey  man  who  had  seen  no  reason  why  he  should 
neglect  science  to  entertain  a  lonely  representative 
of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company.  The  mere  fact 
that  Phil  had  saved  him  from  starvation  did  not 
obligate  geology. 

The  quick  winter  came  and  found  the  post- 
manager  moody  and  irritable.  Had  he  not 
wiped  out  the  opposition  that  had  threatened  to 
ruin  the  Company's  business  in  that  region  ?  Had 
he  not  done  so  after  two  others  had  failed  to  stay 
the  downward  trend  of  the  fur  receipts?  Had  he 
not  just  sent  out  the  largest  shipment  of  fur  the 
post  had  ever  known?  Then  why  should  he  be 
censured,  picked  out  as  an  object  of  castigation  ? 
Why  should  his  success  be  ignored  and  fault  found 


YOUTH  9 

with  a  lot  of  rot  to  which  no  one  had  ever  paid  any 
attention  ? 

The  first  of  November  Phil's  indignation  cul- 
minated in  a  sudden  resolve.  He  would  go  down 
to  the  district  office  and  ask  this  upstart  what  he 
meant  by  writing  him  such  a  letter.  He  would 
show  this  officious  superior  that  Phil  Boynton  at 
least  would  not  submit  to  unmerited  criticism. 
He'd  run  down  and  tell  him  to  his  face  what  he 
thought  of  him. 

And  Phil  did  run  down.  With  one  dog  team  to 
haul  him,  another  for  the  supplies,  and  two  Indians 
to  break  trail,  drive,  make  camp,  and  cook,  he  left 
his  fort  to  the  care  of  an  Indian  servant  and  set  off 
through  five  hundred  miles  of  wilderness  to  have 
five  minutes  of  satisfactory  conversation. 

The  journey  was  difficult,  even  for  the  North 
country.  There  were  days  when  they  made  only 
ten  miles,  and  there  were  other  days  when  they 
sat  huddled  about  a  small  fire  while  the  blizzard 
roared  through  the  stunted  spruce  that  offered 
only  a  semblance  of  protection.  Snow  seemed  to 
fall  continually,  and  the  work  of  breaking  trail  was 
so  difficult  that  even  the  Indians  remarked  upon  it. 

But  at  last  Phil  arrived  at  the  fort  which  was  the 
headquarters  of  his  district.  As  the  dogs,  now  on  a 
hard  trail,  raced  across  the  ice  toward  the  distant 
building,  Phil  forgot  the  object  of  his  journey  in 
the  prospect  of  again  communing  with  his  fellows. 
Old  times  at  the  fort,  where  he  had  served  the 
first  two  years  of  his  apprenticeship,  were  recalled, 


io  PENITENTIARY  POST 

and  as  he  dashed  up  to  the  office  he  became  again 
the  careless,  happy,  companionable  chap  who  had 
made  himself  a  favourite  throughout  a  district  as 
large  as  all  Europe. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  absence  of  familiar  faces  as  he 
stepped  out  of  the  cariole  that  brought  back  to  him 
the  real  reason  for  his  journey.  The  indignation 
of  months  returned,  and  he  strode  into  the  office, 
black  and  grimy  from  the  smoke  of  many  camp- 
fires,  still  dressed  in  his  skins  and  furs,  his  hair 
about  his  shoulders  and  his  face  long  unshaven. 

At  first  Phil  believed  the  office  was  empty. 
Then  he  saw  a  head  appear  above  a  roll-top  desk 
in  a  corner  and  the  next  instant  a  man  stepped  out 
into  the  middle  of  the  room.  He  wore  well- 
pressed  clothes,  a  linen  collar  and  shirt,  a  neatly 
knotted  tie,  and  on  his  feet  were  shoes  that  were 
actually  polished. 

These  things  alone  did  not  confirm  Phil  in  his 
hatred  for  one  whom  he  knew  instantly  to  be  the 
new  district  manager.  Many  of  the  Company's 
men  at  the  larger  posts  dress  as  men  do  in  cities, 
and  in  some  places  the  formalities  of  a  court  are 
maintained.  But  this  man's  cool,  businesslike 
appearance  stamped  him  at  once  as  someone  alien 
to  the  North  country.  He  belonged  a  thou- 
sand miles  farther  south  was  all  Phil  thought  as  he 
slipped  the  otter-trimmed  hood  of  his  skin  coat 
back  from  his  head. 

"I'm  Boynton,  from  Split  Falls,"  he  said.  "I 
want  to  see  Mr.  Borthwick." 


YOUTH  ii 

"I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Boynton,"  was  the 
reply.  "I'm  Mr.  Borthwick." 

Phil  ignored  the  outstretched  hand,  but  before 
he  could  speak  Borthwick  continued : 

"New  Year's  is  three  weeks  off.  Some  trouble 
at  Split  Rock  post?" 

"Split  Rock  post  was  never  in  better  shape," 
replied  Phil,  hotly.  "And  I  know  New  Year's  is 
three  weeks  off.  Here's  why  I  came  down,"  and 
he  shoved  a  soiled  and  crumpled  letter  toward  the 
district  manager. 

Borthwick  shot  a  quick,  questioning  look  at  him 
and  then  coolly  unfolded  the  letter.  He  glanced 
at  it  an  instant. 

"Well?" 

"Well!"  repeated  Phil,  "Isn't  that  enough?" 

"I  hardly  understand,"  and  Borthwick  again 
glanced  at  the  letter.  "Perhaps  there  is  some 
mistake.  This  is  only  one  of  my  letters  to  you." 

"Of  course  it's  only  one  of  your  letters  to  me. 
But  I  want  to  know  what  you  mean  by  it." 

For  the  third  time  Borthwick  looked  over  the 
letter,  this  time  reading  it  from  end  to  end. 

"I  still  fail  to  see,"  he  finally  said,  "why  this 
should  necessitate  a  trip  of  a  thousand  miles  at  the 
Company's  expense  when  the  regular  channels  of 
communication  are  still  open." 

"You  don't!" 

"Certainly  not.  In  this  letter  I  have  merely 
made  certain  suggestions  and  called  your  attention 
to  certain  things.  All  are  matters  of  routine, 


12  PENITENTIARY  POST 

things  pertaining  to  the  Company's  business. 
There  is  absolutely  no  excuse  for  your  putting  the 
Company  to  the  expense  of  a  trip  down  here  on  so 
trivial  a  matter." 

"Trivial!" 

Phil,  his  indignation  culminating  in  a  blind  rage, 
could  only  repeat  the  word  and  stare  at  the  cool, 
precise  individual  before  him.  His  hands  were 
clenched  and  he  raised  himself  on  to  his  toes  several 
times  as  though  preparing  for  a  spring. 

And  then  suddenly  he  realized  that  Borthwick 
never  could  understand,  that  he  was  not  of  the 
North  country,  that  he  did  not  know  North 
country  men,  never  could  know  them.  To  him  the 
effort  and  work  of  a  year  alone,  the  isolation  and  the 
lonesomeness,  the  total  absence  of  the  things  that 
go  to  make  up  the  normal  life  of  a  man,  all  meant 
nothing.  To  this  man  he,  Phil  Boynton,  was  not  a 
human  being  but  merely  the  manager  of  Split  Rock 
post,  the  bloodless,  nerveless,  soulless  automaton 
sent  there  to  transact  the  Company's  business. 

Phil  contrasted  him  with  the  wise  old  district 
manager  he  had  succeeded,  the  man  who  knew  men 
and  their  limitations,  who  had  been  one  of  them 
and  one  of  the  Company,  working  for  its  interests, 
loyal  to  it  and  its  spirit  and  its  precedents,  putting 
it  first  but,  like  the  Company,  not  necessarily 
leaving  them  out  of  consideration. 

Phil  became  suddenly  cool  and  collected. 

"You  are  the  new  manager  of  this  district?" 
he  asked,  quietly. 


YOUTH  13 

"Yes." 

"All  right.  I'm  through.  I  quit.  I've  worked 
for  the  Company  more  than  ten  years,  ever  since  I 
was  a  kid.  I've  always  given  it  the  best  I  had, 
and  I've  always  felt  that  the  Company  did  the 
same  with  me.  But  if  you  are  district  manager, 
if  they  are  going  to  bring  penny-counters  from  the 
shops  in  Winnipeg  and  put  them  in  charge  up  here, 
I'm  through." 

"You  mean  you  have  deserted  your  post  and 
come  down  here  on  a  mythical  pretext." 

"Not  another  word  out  of  you!"  roared  Phil. 
"You're  lucky  to  get  off  with  no  more  than  I've 
given  you.  If  the  Company  is  making  district 
managers  out  of  men  like  you,  I'm  through  with 
the  Company." 

He  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  door  before 
Borthwick  could  reply.  His  Indians  had  already 
put  their  teams  in  the  dog  yard  and  were  eating 
supper.  Phil  made  his  way  across  to  Bachelors' 
Hall,  only  to  be  disappointed  again  by  rinding  its 
sole  occupants  were  two  apprentice  clerks  fresh 
from  Scotland.  A  few  inquiries  revealed  that 
there  was  no  one  at  the  post  whom  he  had  ever 
seen. 

In  complete  disgust  he  prepared  for  supper.  He 
could  look  forward  only  to  a  second  meeting  with 
Borthwick  at  meal  time.  As  he  changed  his 
clothes  he  thought  of  cutting  things  to  say,  of  re- 
marks about  the  fort  as  it  had  been  in  the  good  old 
days. 


14  PENITENTIARY  POST 

But  at  the  table  Borthwick  was  uncommunica- 
tive, though  polite.  He  seemed  clothed  in  an  air 
so  impersonal  that  Phil,  though  boiling  inwardly, 
found  no  opening,  even  for  the  subtle  comments 
to  which  alone  he  had  recourse  because  of  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Borthwick.  The  apprentice 
clerks  seemed  to  be  afraid  to  talk.  Mrs.  Borth- 
wick had  a  lofty  idea  of  the  position  she  occupied 
as  mistress  of  the  district  and  under  the  suffocating 
weight  of  the  formality  she  imposed,  Phil  worried 
through  his  first  really  civilized  meal  in  a  year  and 
a  half. 

He  was  glad  to  escape  at  the  end  and  rushed 
immediately  to  the  employees'  quarters.  As  a 
result  of  five  minutes  of  voluble  Cree  he  was  in  a 
cariole  hours  before  daylight  the  next  morning 
and  when  Borthwick  awakened  was  on  his  way  to 
Winnipeg,  one  team  hauling  him  as  he  lay  back 
comfortably  in  his  robes,  while  another  followed 
with  the  provisions  for  the  journey. 

It  was  five  hundred  miles  to  Winnipeg,  and  Phil 
covered  the  distance  in  only  slightly  less  time  than 
that  from  Split  Rock  to  the  headquarters  post.  He 
went  at  once  to  the  Company's  offices,  turned  in 
his  written  resignation  and  drew  his  accumulated 
salary,  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  Neither 
the  commissioner  nor  the  assistant  commissioner 
was  there  and  Phil  left  at  once  without  an  explana- 
tion of  why,  after  a  dozen  years,  he  chose  to  leave 
the  service  of  the  Company  of  Gentlemen  Ad- 
venturers Trading  into  Hudson  Bay. 


YOUTH  15 

That  night,  in  clean,  well-pressed  clothes,  his 
hair  cut,  and  his  face  shaved,  Phil  Boynton  thrust 
his  legs  beneath  a  hotel  table  for  the  first  time  in 
five  years.  He  had  been  in  Winnipeg  before,  on 
his  first  and  only  leave  of  absence,  and,  though  he 
was  a  complete  stranger,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  at 
home.  The  lights,  the  music,  the  smart  linen  and 
silverware  on  the  table,  the  chatter  throughout 
the  big  room,  the  odours  of  food  and  drink,  all  were 
as  wine  to  unaccustomed  lips.  Merely  being  there 
intoxicated  him.  The  long  years  of  loneliness  were 
forgotten,  the  hatred  for  Borthwick  was  as  if 
it  had  never  been,  and  he  abandoned  himself  to  the 
present. 

Consequently,  when  a  man  was  seated  at  his 
table  five  minutes  later,  the  attention  of  the 
entire  dining  room  was  attracted  by  Phil's  out- 
burst. 

"Jerry  McGill!"  he  cried  in  a  voice  heard  in  the 
lobby.  "Sit  down.  Stand  up  and  shake  again. 
Have  a  drink.  This  meal's  on  me.  Where'd  you 
come  from?  What  Providence  sent  you  here?  I 
thought  you  were  way  down  the  Mackenzie." 

McGill  was  no  less  boisterous  in  his  greetings 
and  it  was  five  minutes  before  they  became  joint 
possessors  of  the  information  that  Philip  Boynton, 
late  of  the  service  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company, 
and  Jerry  McGill,  corporal  of  the  Royal  Northwest 
Mounted,  were  really  sitting  together  at  a  table  in 
Winnipeg,  tasting  of  the  delights  of  civilization 
after  long  absence;  that  each  was  having  dinner 


16  PENITENTIARY  POST 

on  the  other  and  that  they  were  to  make  a  night  of 
it. 

The  number  of  years  a  man  has  lived  counts  for 
nothing  after  a  long  stay  in  the  wilderness.  The 
return  of  civilization  levels  ages,  brings  all  down  to 
the  exuberant  period  of  youth.  The  sailor  after  a 
long  voyage,  the  cowboy  after  months  on  the 
range,  the  lumberjack  after  a  winter  in  the  woods, 
each  on  his  return  to  town  becomes  a  boy,  a  wild, 
heedless,  shouting,  intoxicated  boy. 

Phil  Boynton  and  Jerry  McGill,  freed  of  the 
fetters  of  interminable  distances,  celebrated  their 
reunion  as  only  men  of  the  Northland  can  cele- 
brate. What  happened  would  be  difficult  to  say. 
Phil  himself  could  not  remember  when  he  wakened 
in  the  middle  of  the  next  forenoon.  He  was  in  his 
room  in  the  hotel.  Beside  him,  fully  dressed,  lay 
Corporal  McGill.  It  was  all  unfamiliar,  but  this 
strange  bedfellow  brought  back  dim  recollections, 
the  second  or  third  of  which  caused  Phil  to  spring 
from  bed  with  utter  disregard  for  his  head. 

A  quick  search  of  his  pockets  revealed  one  roll  of 
bills.  He  counted  these  anxiously,  and  then  again. 
There  was  only  four  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
when  there  should  have  been  seven  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars,  less  what  little  he  had  probably  spent 
the  night  before. 

"Jerry!"  he  cried,  shaking  the  policeman. 
"Jerry!  Wake  up!  Where's  my  money ?  I  didn't 
spend  all  of  that!" 

But  Jerry   refused   to  waken   and   Phil  again 


YOUTH  17 

searched  his  pockets.  This  time  he  found  in  the 
inside  breast-pocket  of  his  coat  a  long  white  en- 
velope. In  bewilderment  he  opened  it  and  drew 
out  a  piece  of  green  paper  which  unfolded  with 
queer  little  jerks  like  a  child's  toy  until  it  stretched 
to  the  floor. 

Still  bewildered,  Phil  examined  it. 

"Winnipeg  to  St.  Paul." 

"St.  Paul  to  Chicago." 

"Chicago  to  Montreal." 

"Montreal  to  Liverpool." 
And  then  it  began  reading  backward. 

"Liverpool  to  Montreal." 

"Montreal  to  Chicago." 

He  did  not  have  to  go  farther.  He  knew  what 
he  had  done.  He  was  now  the  possessor  of  a 
round-trip  ticket  home,  which  had  cost  something 
more  than  two  hundred  dollars. 

Still  stunned  by  his  discovery,  Phil  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed.  Home!  Mother!  The 
governor  and  his  new  motor-car!  It  was  twelve 
years  since  he  had  seen  them.  He  had  been  a  boy, 
eighteen  years  old,  when  he  had  said  good-bye  and, 
despite  their  protests,  sailed  away  to  British 
America.  He  would  like  to  see  them. 

He  shaved,  dressed,  packed  his  bag  and  then 
turned  to  the  bed. 

"Wake  up!"  he  called  as  he  shook  the  snoring 
man.  "Wake  up,  Jerry!" 

The  policeman  turned  over  and  stared  with 
puzzled  eyes. 


i8  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"I'm  going  home!"  Phil  cried,  excitedly.  "So 
long!" 

McGill  swung  his  feet  to  the  floor  and  stared  at 
the  other. 

"Where?"  he  asked,  suspiciously. 

"Home.     England." 

"Oh!"  and  he  rolled  on  to  the  bed  again. 
"You'll  be  back  soon.  I  went  once.  They're 
sending  me  up  to  the  Bay  and  I'll  see  you  there 
inside  of  a  year." 


TWO    BARS    ON   THE    MAGNET 

PHIL  did  go  back.  For  a  month  his  visit 
home  was  pure  delight.  He  was  the  re- 
turned wanderer,  the  eldest  son,  and  he 
reveled  in  the  adoration  of  mother  and  sister,  the 
unbending  of  his  father,  and  the  unaccustomed 
creature  comforts  of  civilization. 

Then  the  change  came.  After  the  excitement 
of  his  return  had  vanished  he  saw  that  he  was  no 
longer  an  Englishman,  that  he  no  longer  was  in 
accord  with  venerable  English  ideas.  Thrown 
into  a  strange  environment  when  at  a  plastic  age, 
he  had  shed  English  thoughts  and  habits  for  those 
of  a  wide,  raw  land.  As  a  result,  he  was  a  stranger 
to  his  family,  and  his  family  to  him.  He  was  bored. 
They  were  scandalized.  Conditions  became 
strained.  He  wished  he  hadn't  come. 

One  day  Phil  suddenly  realized  the  cause  of  an 
insidious  restlessness.  It  was  the  North  country, 
the  only  thing  he  cared  about,  the  only  place  he 
knew,  and  where  he  in  turn  could  be  understood. 
He  took  a  train  to  London  and  dropped  in  at  the 
offices  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company. 

There  is  no  other  corporation  in  the  world  like  it. 
Its  servants,  as  they  are  still  called  in  the  con- 

19 


20  PENITENTIARY  POST 

tracts,  are  its  children,  and  no  mother  was  ever 
more  forgiving  of  errant  or  vagrant  offspring. 
Phil  was  welcomed  with  open  arms,  reemployed, 
and  sent  out  on  the  first  ship  of  the  summer.  His 
joy  was  so  great  he  could  even  laugh  at  the  relief 
with  which  his  father  and  mother  greeted  his  an- 
nouncement that  he  was  returning  to  Canada. 

Captain  Hargraft  had  commanded  the  ship  on 
Phil's  previous  voyage.  He  remembered  him,  as 
he  remembered  all  the  young  English  and  Scotch 
boys  he  had  taken  into  Hudson  Bay,  and  Phil  re- 
ceived a  cordial  greeting. 

"We  have  a  lady  passenger  this  trip,"  said  the 
captain  after  they  had  talked  for  a  while  on  the 
bridge.  "Company  is  sending  her  over  to  be 
governess  for  some  post-manager's  children  near 
the  Bay." 

"  English  giri?"  asked  Phil. 

"Yes,  and  a  beauty.  One  of  the  big,  tall, 
blonde  kind.  I'll  fix  you  at  the  first  table." 

"Captain,  let  me  mess  with  the  crew.  Serve 
my  meals  in  my  room.  Starve  me,  if  necessary. 
But  don't  put  me  at  the  same  table  with  an  Eng- 
lish girl.  I'm  fed  up  on  them.  I  haven't  seen 
anything  else  for  months.  If  there's  a  breed  girl 
from  Norway  House  on  board,  all  right.  I'd  like 
to  talk  to  one.  But  not  the  English  kind." 

"Wait,"  was  all  the  captain  said. 

Even  Phil's  first  voyage,  when  he  had  hardly 
slept  nights,  so  impatient  was  he  to  see  the  land 
of  his  dreams,  failed  to  compare  with  the  ecstasy 


TWO  BARS  ON  THE  MAGNET        21 

of  his  second  in  company  with  Joyce  Plummer. 
It  was  not  that  he  had  been  starved  by  his  twelve 
years  in  the  wilderness.  It  was  not  that  he  turned 
in  relief  to  this  thoroughly  delightful  young  woman 
after  the  boredom  of  his  family's  friends.  It  was 
because  she  was  in  reality  the  girl  he  had  dreamed 
of  at  solitary  posts. 

Joyce  Plummer  so  nearly  fitted  his  picture  that 
Phil  could  not  look  at  her  for  several  days  without  a 
somewhat  superstitious  feeling  of  awe.  From  the 
first  meal  he  worshipped,  generally  silently,  always 
with  a  conscious  effort  to  conceal  what  he  felt 
must  be  a  most  evident  adoration. 

It  was  inevitable  that  Joyce  Plummer  had  been 
worshipped  thus  before.  Perhaps  that  was  the 
reason  she  appeared  to  be  so  unconscious  of  Phil's 
attitude  toward  her,  a  fact  which,  unknown  to  him, 
added  to  her  charm.  She  had  that  faculty  of 
ignoring  the  differences  of  sex,  of  understanding 
things  wholly  within  men's  sphere.  She  not  only 
showed  interest  in  men's  activities  but  could  talk 
intelligently  about  them. 

But  the  real  bond  between  them,  the  common 
ground  upon  which  they  met  from  the  beginning, 
was  her  almost  masculine  appreciation  of  the 
romantic  aspects  of  life  in  the  country  to  which 
she  was  going. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  enter  the  Hudson's 
Bay  service?"  she  asked  him  that  first  afternoon. 

"  Ballantyne,"  he  answered,  and  instantly  her 
face  lit  up. 


22  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"Me,  too!"  she  cried.  "'Ungava,'  'Hudson 
Bay,'  'The  Young  Fur  Traders.'  I've  read  every 
word  of  them  several  times." 

"They've  started  more  young  fellows  in  the 
service  than  any  other  one  thing." 

"And  are  you  disappointed  afterward?" 

"In  a  way,  but  you  don't  think  of  that.  Some- 
thing else  takes  its  place,  I  guess.  It's  just  as  you 
would  expect,  after  reading  Ballantyne,  and  yet 
it's  altogether  different.  I  don't  think  any  one 
can  tell  exactly  what  it  is  about  the  North  country 
that  draws  him  so.  The  Lord  knows  there  are 
enough  things  about  it  to  drive  a  man  away.  And 
yet  they  don't.  He  sticks,  or  he  goes  back,  and 
he's  always  unhappy  when  he's  away  and  always 
glad  to  get  back  again." 

"That's  just  as  I  knew  it  would  be,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "I  knew  some  things  would  be  different. 
But  I  knew  that  the  real  things,  the  love  for  the 
land,  would  come." 

"It's  strange  your  knowing  that  before  you  go. 
I  didn't  know  it  and  yet  it  is  what  will  really  come 
true." 

"But  perhaps  that's  because  you  didn't  come 
from  a  Hudson's  Bay  family,"  answered  the  girl, 
quickly.  "It  must  be  that  the  love  of  the  land 
was  born  in  me.  All  my  life  it  has  been  there. 
My  father  and  my  uncle  were  Hudson's  Bay  men. 
Only  my  father  could  not  stay  in  the  country. 
My  mother  was  not  strong  enough  to  go  there  and 
so  he  had  to  come  back  to  England.  And  always 


TWO  BARS  ON  THE  MAGNET        23 

for  her  sake  he  hid  his  wish  to  return.  But  as  a 
child  I  realized  it.  And  when  we  were  alone  we 
used  to  talk  of  the  country.  I  think  his  longing 
was  born  in  me.  That  is  why,  when  my  mother 
died  and  there  was  no  one  to  keep  me  in  England, 
I  was  so  glad  to  go  out  there  as  a  governess.  It 
seems  almost  that  I  must  live  that  life  for  both 
father  and  myself." 

Joyce's  words  explained  to  Phil  her  surprising 
knowledge  of  the  Company,  its  methods  and  the 
lives  of  its  servants.  For,  while  her  understanding 
enthusiasm  for  the  purely  masculine  activities  of 
the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  had  charmed  him,  it 
had  also  puzzled.  He  would  have  been  quick  to 
feel  a  forced  interest  or  a  desire  for  the  bizarre. 
He  would  have  been  repelled  by  either  pretense  or 
hoydenism.  But  the  naturalness  and  sincerity 
of  her  ardour  compelled  acceptance  and  won  him 
completely. 

Phil  was  so  thoroughly  entranced  that  he  gave 
no  thought  to  anything  else.  Had  his  captivation 
been  less  complete  he  would  have  given  some  con- 
sideration to  the  future,  would  have  wondered  at 
least  into  what  the  present  was  leading  him.  But 
never  a  thought  of  it  entered  his  head  until 
he  was  suddenly  brought  face  to  face  with  reality 
by  an  entirely  innocent  question  from  Miss 
Plummer. 

"What  will  you  do  when  you  get  to  the  Bay?'* 

"Whatever  they  have  for  me  to  do,"  he  said 
when  he  recovered  from  the  shock.  "Sent  out  to 


24  PENITENTIARY  POST 

some  post  if  there  is  a  vacancy.  There  probably 
is  one  or  the  London  office  wouldn't  have  sent  me 
to  the  Savant  Lake  district." 

"And  will  your  resignation  and  return  to  the 
service  result  in  your  being  given  an  unimportant 
post?  Sort  of  a  punishment  for  running  away?" 

"They  do  punish  that  way  sometimes.  But  the 
chances  are  that  the  Savant  Lake  district  manager 
will  not  know  anything  about  that,  or  care.  He'll 
put  me  where  he  needs  me,  or  where  he  wants  to 
put  me." 

"  But  he  will  surely  know  what  you  did  at  Split 
Falls  before  you  left,  of  how  you  drove  out  the 
opposition." 

Phil  flushed  at  this  interpretation  of  a  story 
he  had  told  with  an  entirely  different  purpose. 
To  him  the  flight  of  the  Freetrader  had  been  only 
amusing  in  the  retrospect. 

"A  man's  reputation  does  help,  at  times,  but 
mine's  rather  mixed,  I'm  afraid,"  he  laughed. 

His  face  instantly  became  serious.  A  thought 
had  come  to  him  that  sobered  him  completely. 
Joyce  saw  the  quick  change  in  his  expression. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"I  just  happened  to  think  of  the  posts  in  the 
district.  I've  never  been  in  it,  but  of  course  I've 
heard  all  about  it  and  know  of  every  post." 

"And  there  is  one  that — one  that  isn't  popular?" 

"Not  popular'  hardly  expresses  it." 

He  shivered  and  looked  out  over  the  sea. 

"There  is  a  little  post  I'd  forgotten  about,"  he 


TWO  BARS  ON  THE  MAGNET       25 

said  at  last.  "And  maybe  they'll  send  me  there, 
though  I  never  did  anything  to  deserve  such  a  fate, 
even  by  quitting.  It's  out  of  the  world  entirely. 
It's  way  out  past  the  rim  of  things,  even  for  the 
North  country.  It's  the  most  desolate,  horrible 
spot  you  could  imagine,  more  desolate  and  more 
horrible  than  you  can  dream  of  until  you  have  seen 
a  little  of  the  land  you're  going  to.  Most  posts  are 
lonely,  but  there  is  something  about  this  one  that 
has  given  it  a  reputation  from  Rigolet  to  McPher- 
son.  It's  called  Penitentiary  Post,  and  that  is 
what  it  has  been,  a  prison  for  the  man  in  charge, 
a  punishment  worse  than  any  one  in  the  service  has 
ever  deserved.  I  think  they  keep  it  open  just  for 
that  purpose." 

Something  in  the  tense  tone  of  the  fur  trader 
caused  Joyce  to  look  at  him  apprehensively. 

"But  they  wouldn't  send  you  there!"  she 
protested. 

Phil  smiled.  Her  confidence  did  relieve  his 
apprehension,  but  he  knew  that  he  was  never 
destined  for  Penitentiary  Post.  His  talks  in  the 
London  office  had  given  him  an  insight  into  his 
value  to  the  Company.  The  successful  meeting  of 
competition,  the  adaptation  to  new  conditions  of 
the  fur  trade,  these  demanded  men  other  than 
those  of  the  old  school,  men  not  too  thoroughly 
steeped  in  the  old  methods  of  transacting  a  busi- 
ness that  is  not  like  any  other  business  in  the  world. 

"No,"  he  said  with  a  confident  smile,  "I'll  never 
be  sent  to  Penitentiary  Post." 


CHAPTER  III 

PHIL    GETS   HIS    POST 

THE  journey  of  Joyce  Plummer  and  Philip 
Boynton  did  not  end  with  the  sea  voyage. 
Each  was  bound  for  Savant  House,  which 
meant  a  canoe  trip  of  four  hundred  miles  together. 

From  the  day  the  girl  had  landed  from  the  ship, 
which  anchored  many  miles  out  from  shore,  she 
had  been  enthralled  with  her  surroundings,  with 
the  things  she  saw  and  the  many  things  she  heard. 
For  the  first  time,  too,  Phil  was  denied  what  he  had 
come  to  consider  his  exclusive  prerogative.  There 
were  several  men  at  the  great  depot  on  the  bay 
where  the  ship  unloaded,  men  who  had  not  seen  a 
white  woman  for  so  long  that  the  fair  beauty  of 
Joyce  Plummer  fairly  stunned  them. 

But  only  for  a  moment.  Post-managers  and 
district  managers  vied  with  each  other  for  the 
privilege  of  showing  her  about,  of  sitting  next  to 
her  at  mealtimes,  of  answering  the  questions 
with  which  she  was  so  abundantly  supplied.  Phil 
was  simply  shoved  to  one  side  by  that  irresistible 
force  that  draws  lonely  men  to  a  woman.  He 
had  to  be  content  with  only  those  crumbs  Joyce 
managed  to  toss  his  way. 

He  was  not  entirely  idle  in  the  three  days  pre- 
26 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  POST  27 

ceding  their  journey  to  Savant  House,  however. 
There  was  much  news  of  the  North  country  to 
listen  to,  news  that  told  him  of  the  past  and  of  what 
the  future  might  bring. 

First,  he  learned  that  his  disaffection  of  the  win- 
ter before  had  not  been  an  isolated  case.  Others 
had  been  aroused  by  the  cold,  unfamiliarly  busi- 
nesslike letters  of  Borthwick  and  the  entire  district 
had  been  in  such  a  ferment  that  a  new  manager 
was  on  his  way  to  succeed  him. 

Secondly,  the  district  to  which  Phil  was  going 
was  in  charge  of  John  Wickson.  Claude  Osborne 
was  post-manager  at  Savant  House  and  it  was  his 
children  that  were  to  be  tutored  by  Miss  Plummer. 

Thirdly,  Wickson  would  undoubtedly  be  glad  to 
know  he  was  to  have  Phil  in  his  district.  He  had 
two  vacancies,  or  would  make  one  of  them  because 
of  the  inroads  of  a  company  of  Freetraders. 

"Everybody  knows  what  you  did  at  Split 
Rock,"  Phil  was  told,  "and  Wickson  will  shove 
you  out  to  try  your  hand  with  these  other  fellows 
at  Long  Point.  He's  had  two  men  in  there  in  the 
last  two  years  and  the  fur  receipts  have  kept  on 
falling.  Old-timers,  both  of  them,  and  they 
couldn't  make  headway  against  the  opposition. 
And  Wickson  isn't  the  kind  that  stands  for  any 
one  else  getting  the  fur.  It's  a  good  post,  and 
you'll  like  it  there." 

Consequently,  when  at  last  he  and  Joyce  started 
up-river  by  canoe,  each  paddled  by  two  Indians, 
Phil  was  once  more  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  the 


28  PENITENTIARY  POST 

sea  voyage.  Again  he  was  alone  with  her,  and  he 
was  going  to  a  good  post,  one  not  so  far  from 
Savant  House  but  that  he  could  run  down  two  or 
three  times  a  year.  The  future  held  only  entranc- 
ing dreams. 

It  was  Phil's  nature  to  live  in  the  present,  the 
present  and  the  immediate  future.  His  North- 
country  training  as  well  as  the  boyishness  that  had 
persisted  into  manhood  was  responsible  for  this. 
He  liked  his  work.  Despite  his  resignation  of  the 
winter  before,  he  had  that  loyalty  to  the  Company 
so  characteristic  of  its  servants.  Men  older  in  the 
service  than  he,  brooding  through  a  long  solitude, 
had  done  similar  things.  It  was  only  an  instance 
of  the  independence  of  post-managers  fostered  by 
the  Company  itself  to  meet  its  peculiar  conditions. 

And  it  was  in  the  present  and  the  immediate 
future  that  Phil  lived  on  the  canoe  journey  with 
Joyce.  On  the  ship  she  had  been  looking  forward 
to  the  things  of  which  she  had  talked  and  dreamed. 
No  boy  entering  the  service  could  have  been  more 
enraptured  over  the  prospect  of  seeing  his  first 
post  on  the  Bay,  his  first  Indians,  his  first  canoes 
and  York  boats.  Nor  was  there  any  of  the 
sightseer  in  her  attitude.  She  wished  rather  to 
become  at  once  of  the  country,  to  take  part  in  all 
its  activities.  She  was  not  content  to  sit  in  the 
canoe  and  be  paddled  but  insisted  on  plying  a  blade. 
She  amused  the  Indians  by  carrying  a  small  pack 
across  portages.  She  even  dabbled  in  the  cooking 
and  marvelled  at  Phil's  refusal  to  do  anything  at  all. 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  POST  29 

"Why,  it's  jolly,  this  sort  of  thing!"  she  ex- 
claimed one  day.  "I  don't  see  how  you  can  sit 
and  do  nothing.  I  should  think  you  would  be 
bored  to  death,  lying  back  there  on  all  those  blank- 
ets in  the  canoe." 

"I  always  read  when  I'm  travelling  alone." 

She  looked  at  him  rather  scornfully. 

"Don't  you  ever  do  anything?" 

"Oh,  I  did  at  first.  But  one  gets  tired  of  it, 
and  then  it's  not  quite  the  thing,  you  know." 

Frankly  she  surveyed  his  big,  husky  body. 

"You  should  do  it  to  keep  fit,"  she  declared. 
"And  then  it's  such  sport,  far  better  than  cricket 
or  tennis.  Why  isn't  it  the  thing?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  and  Phil  nodded  toward  the 
Indians  who  were  eating  their  noon  meal  nearer 
the  river  bank,  "we  have  to  let  these  people  think 
that  we're  a  little  too  good  for  work.  They  are  the 
workers.  We  are  the  masters,  and  we  can't  ever 
let  them  forget  it.  It's  always  been  the  custom, 
and  it's  policy  to  keep  it  up." 

"I  believe  you're  only  lazy,"  she  said.  "But 
I'm  going  to  learn  to  paddle  and  showshoe  and 
drive  dogs  and  do  all  the  rest." 

The  memory  of  that  journey  never  dimmed  for 
Phil.  It  seemed  for  a  time  that  it  would  never  end, 
this  floating  side  by  side  with  the  girl  he  loved  in  the 
land  he  loved.  It  seemed  to  be  too  perfect,  but  he 
never  looked  forward  to  the  end,  to  the  time,  now 
near,  when  he  would  be  compelled  to  leave  her  for 
six  months  of  loneliness  unbroken  by  even  a  letter. 


30  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Their  complete  isolation,  that  feeling  of  being  in 
a  little  world  of  their  own,  had  its  effect  on  Joyce, 
too.  Without  speaking  of  it  directly,  without 
voicing  thoughts  which  had  become  common,  they 
drifted  into  a  union  which  seemed  sweeter  because 
it  was  wordless.  They  were,  in  reality,  two 
children  in  the  wilderness,  failing  to  comprehend 
anything  except  the  present,  unable  to  understand 
why  all  life  should  not  be  a  pleasant  drifting  side  by 
side. 

All  Savant  House  turned  out  to  greet  the  new 
governess.  John  Wickson's  reception  of  Phil  was 
hardly  less  cordial,  and  though  nothing  was  said, 
the  young  man  knew  at  once  to  what  post  he  would 
be  sent.  Unconsciously  too,  he  had  begun  to 
assume  an  air  of  proprietorship  toward  Joyce. 
He  could  be  magnanimous  now  when  others  de- 
manded her  attention.  Secretly  it  pleased  him, 
and  that  first  afternoon  was  spent  in  the  office  of 
the  district  manager  while  the  Osbornes  monop- 
olized Miss  Plummer. 

Wickson  made  no  reference  to  Phil's  resignation 
and  reenlistment  in  the  service  of  the  Company. 
With  just  a  mention  of  Split  Rock  post  he  let  the 
young  man  know  that  he  had  heard  of  his  work 
there.  He  emphasized  too,  the  necessity  of  more 
active  methods  in  handling  the  opposition,  gave 
his  views  on  the  subject  and  drew  some  from  Phil. 
When  supper-time  came  the  best  of  relations  had 
been  established  between  them  and  again  Phil 
thought  of  the  pleasant  year  ahead  of  him. 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  POST  31 

He  saw  Joyce  for  a  few  minutes  before  supper. 

For  the  first  time  her  eyes  were  not  laughing 
or  lighted  by  a  boundless  interest  in  the  country 
to  which  she  had  come. 

"Did  you  hear  about  the  poor  fellow  who  was 
brought  in  here  last  week?"  she  asked. 

"No.    Who  was  it?" 

"The  post-manager  from  Fort  Dease.  He  was 
taken  out  on  the  way  to  Winnipeg  only  yesterday." 

"Hurt,  was  he?" 

"No,  so  much  worse  than  that.  He's  mad, 
Phil,  mad  as  a  March  hare." 

"Couldn't  stand  the  lonesomeness,  eh?" 

"That's  what  they  say.  Why,  Phil,  such  a 
thing  must  be  terrible,  being  driven  mad  by  the 
solitude." 

She  looked  at  him  apprehensively,  but  he  only 
laughed  at  the  fear  in  her  eyes. 

"Something  the  matter  with  a  man  when  he 
can't  stand  a  year  of  that  sort  of  a  thing,"  he 
assured  her.  "Men  have  been  doing  it  for  more 
than  two  hundred  years,  in  these  little  out-of-the- 
way  posts." 

"But,  Phil,  this  man  said  it  was  something  else; 
spirits,  evil  spirits,  a  'weeteego,'  he  called  it." 

Phil  refused  to  consider  the  matter  seriously. 

"The  'weeteego'  came  afterward,  I  guess,"  he 
said.  "That's  the  Cree  for  'evil  spirit,'  sort  of  a 
cannibal  affair  with  them.  After  he  went  off  his 
nut  he  probably  thought  he  saw  one." 

"But  when  he  was  here  he  raved  all  the  time 


32  PENITENTIARY  POST 

about  it.  Mrs.  Osborne  says  she  doesn't  think  the 
man  was  mad  but  that  he  was  simply  scared  out 
of  his  senses  by  something,  though  the  men  didn't 
take  any  more  stock  in  it  than  you  do.  But  she 
says  he  told  about  this  'weeteego'  trying  to  get 
into  his  room  at  night  and  of  hearing  all  sorts  of 
strange  sounds  when  he  knew  no  one  else  was 
within  many  miles  of  him.  She  said  it  made  her 
shiver,  the  stories  he  told  her,  and  she  says  she  is 
sure  that  he  is  not  insane  and  that  there  is  some- 
thing back  of  what  he  said." 

"Just  the  loneliness,"  Phil  insisted.  "He 
couldn't  stand  it,  though  the  poor  beggar  probably 
had  a  hard  time  of  it  at  Fort  Dease." 

"Why  Fort  Dease  more  than  any  other  post?" 

"  Don't  you  remember  my  telling  you  of  it,  way 
out  past  the  rim  of  things,  the  most  desolate  place 
imaginable,  off  there  on  the  Bay?  And  you  got 
some  idea  of  how  desolate  a  Bay  post  may  be." 

"Not  Penitentiary  Post!" 

"That's  the  name  it  generally  goes  by,  though 
Fort  Dease  is  the  official  name." 

"And  he  was  sent  there,  sent  to  be  punished! 
Why,  Phil,  such  a  thing  is  terrible." 

"Oh,  perhaps  he  was  only  an  apprentice  clerk 
given  his  first  tryout.  Good  thing  he  found  out 
early  that  he  couldn't  stand  the  life." 

The  call  for  supper  came  and  the  entire  white 
population  of  the  fort  gathered  at  the  table. 
Wickson,  who  had  been  busy  with  some  mail  Phil 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  POST  33 

had  brought  from  the  Bay,  was  seated  opposite 
Joyce  Plummer.  They  had  met  in  the  afternoon 
but  only  for  a  moment  and  the  district  manager 
seemed  to  realize  for  the  first  time  that  she  had 
arrived. 

He  was  fascinated  from  the  start,  and  he  made 
no  attempt  to  conceal  the  fact.  He  spoke  to  no 
one  else  at  the  table,  and  he  gave  Joyce  scant  op- 
portunity to  divide  her  attention.  At  first  the 
girl  was  flattered  by  this  tribute  of  the  despot  of  an 
empire.  She  found  in  it  a  promise  of  agreeable 
companions  through  the  year,  for  she  had  been  won 
at  once  by  the  Osborne  family. 

But  Joyce  Plummer  had  never  before  seen  a  man 
like  John  Wickson.  The  men  she  had  met  had 
become  of  the  North.  He  had  always  been  of  that 
land.  Unlike  so  many  of  the  Company's  servants, 
he  had  not  been  brought  from  England  or  Scot- 
land to  serve  his  five  years  as  an  apprentice 
clerk  and  grow  up  in  the  service.  His  father  and 
his  father's  father  had  been  Company  men,  had 
died  in  its  service  in  the  North  country.  Wickson 
had  been  brought  up  in  it,  had  never  known  any- 
thing else. 

He  had  been  born  before  confederation,  just 
before  that  time  when  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company 
had  given  up  its  ancient  charter  rights  to  the  new 
Dominion  of  Canada.  He  had  been  brought  up  in 
the  atmosphere  of  the  old  regime,  among  men 
who  had  never  known  any  power,  any  law,  except 
that  of  the  Company.  He  came  of  the  days  when 


34  PENITENTIARY  POST 

past-managers  were  still  called  factors  or  traders 
from  force  of  habit,  and  when  district  managers 
were  chief  factors  with  the  power  of  a  Muscovite 
ruler. 

It  was  in  those  times  with  its  supreme  authority 
over  half  a  continent,  with  its  semi-military  system 
of  conducting  its  business,  with  its  isolation  and 
its  mystery  and  its  aloofness,  that  the  Company 
established  customs  and  precedents,  bred  a  pecu- 
liar type  of  men  and  still  managed,  with  all  its 
autocracy,  to  give  the  world  its  first  and  greatest 
example  of  industrial  welfare  work. 

Wickson  was  thoroughly  of  the  old  days  in 
habits,  training,  thought,  and  actions.  He  was 
big  physically,  about  forty-two  years  old,  thor- 
oughly tanned,  a  cat  on  his  feet  despite  his  size. 
He  had  lived  completely  in  the  North  and  of  it, 
knew  the  forest  like  an  Indian,  could  out-drive  a 
half-breed  with  dogs,  and  wield  as  skilful  a  paddle 
as  a  Cree.  In  this  he  was  different  from  the  men 
imported  from  England.  His  vitality  had  been 
too  rampant  to  permit  physical  indolence,  and  his 
skill  and  endurance  had  been  great  enough  to  win 
from  the  Indians  more  respect  than  had  he  merely 
posed  as  a  ruler. 

Naturally  there  was  something  untamed  about 
Wickson.  He  had  been  associated  with  men  of 
education  and  even  culture.  He  had  been  known1 
through  a  great  wilderness  for  his  thirst  for  books, 
and  the  long  winters  in  many  posts  had  given  him 
abundant  time  for  study.  He  had  investigated 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  POST  35 

with  a  scientific  as  well  as  a  business  interest  the 
various  tribes  of  Indians  with  which  he  had  come 
in  contact,  and  he  had  contributed  several  mono- 
graphs to  a  London  ethnological  magazine. 

Yet  he  continued  to  be  much  of  a  savage.  Long 
association  with  savage  folk,  a  lifetime  of  ceaseless 
struggle  with  a  savage  wilderness,  these  had  their 
first  effect  upon  him  and  the  deepest.  He  had 
never  known  a  restraining  influence  except  his 
devotion  to  the  Company,  and  in  his  work  his  very 
lack  of  restraint  had  brought  success  and  promo- 
tion. 

Through  it  all  Wickson  had  remained  very  much 
aloof.  He  had  few  friends,  no  intimates.  Men 
feared  him,  were  repelled  by  his  coldness  and  his 
hardness,  by  his  singleness  of  purpose,  by  his  blunt, 
uncontrolled  speech.  He  did  not  try  to,  or  could 
not,  hide  his  contempt  or  his  lack  of  interest  in 
them.  To  the  people  of  the  North  who  knew  him, 
Wickson  had  remained  an  enigma.  He  was  re- 
spected for  what  he  had  accomplished,  feared  for 
what  he  might  say,  sometimes  laughed  at  when 
a  thousand  safe  miles  separated  him  from  the 
mockers. 

Wickson  had  seen  women  before.  He  had  seen 
the  wives  of  post-managers  and  district  managers. 
He  had  been  "out"  several  times,  once  to  England. 
But  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  found  in  a  woman 
something  he  had  never  known  existed. 

It  was  not  Joyce  Plummer's  beauty  alone.  It 
was  not  the  lure  of  fair  hair  after  a  lifetime  of  the 


•36  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Indian's  black.  It  was  not  the  tall,  well-formed 
figure  that  differed  so  strikingly  from  those  of  the 
mothers  of  post  children  and  from  the  squat, 
broad-backed,  straight-lined  bodies  of  Indian 
women.  It  was  not  alone  the  eyes  which  seemed 
so  alive  and  so  eager. 

It  was,  rather,  the  very  soul  of  the  girl  herself 
as  it  sought  expression  in  every  line,  every  feature, 
every  light  in  her  eyes,  every  full  tone  of  her  rich 
voice.  It  was  rather  that  which  was  suggested 
than  that  which  was  apparent,  the  potentiality  of 
a  nature  that  had  already  broken  the  bounds  of 
home  and  precedent  and  tradition.  Joyce  Plum- 
mer  really  stood  at  the  threshold  of  a  new  life. 
Perfectly  genuine  and  sincere,  eager  for  the  un- 
expected, unprepared  for  disillusionment,  in  love 
with  life  and  with  this  new  phase  of  it  to  which  she 
had  looked  forward  for  so  long,  she  was  impatient 
for  the  future. 

Adding  to  her  charm,  and  to  her  disarmament, 
was  her  boyish  enthusiasm  for  the  life  upon  which 
she  was  just  entering.  Like  a  boy,  she  had  made 
heroes  of  every  servant  of  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company,  from  the  lowliest  trapper  to  the  oldest 
post-manager.  Like  a  boy,  she  looked  forward 
to  canoeing  and  shooting  and  to  the  long,  cold 
winter  with  its  romantic  dog-teams  and  skin-clad 
people. 

To  Philip  Boynton  these  things  had  come  im- 
perceptibly. Daily  he  had  found  something  new 
that  appealed  to  him,  and  nightly  he  had  pondered 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  POST  37 

over  it.  Yet  at  the  end  he  was  unable  to  describe 
or  explain  one  thing  that  drew  him  to  her. 

John  Wickson  was  not  half  through  his  meal 
before  he  understood  her  perfectly.  Almost  in- 
stantly, though  unfamiliar  with  women  like  her,  he 
had  assayed  and  appraised  and  probed,  and  his 
mind  had  done  it  coolly,  calmly,  thoroughly,  while 
the  fire  in  his  heart  was  mounting  to  a  white  heat. 

But  if  he  probed  coolly  he  probed  openly. 
He  did  not  seek  to  hide  the  new  light  that  came  to 
his  eyes,  and  when  they  arose  at  the  end  of  the 
meal  every  one  at  the  table  knew  it  except  Joyce 
herself. 

To  Mrs.  Osborne  alone  did  it  bring  alarm. 
Knowing  men  of  the  North  better,  understanding 
Wickson's  type,  and,  more  than  anything  else, 
having  read  instantly  the  relation  that  already 
existed  between  Joyce  and  Phil,  she  trembled  at 
the  thought  of  what  might  happen.  It  was  not  that 
she  feared  the  sincerity  of  the  district  manager's 
motives,  but  she  did  dread  what  the  power  and  the 
resistless  energy  and  the  very  savagery  of  the  man 
might  bring.  To  her  it  spelled  only  unhappiness. 

Phil  felt  nothing  of  jealousy  or  resentment, 
nothing  of  fear.  Rather  he  was  amused  at  this 
spectacle  of  bruin  and  the  beauty,  for  as  such  he 
had  instantly  pictured  them.  In  the  weeks  he  had 
spent  with  Joyce  he  had  not  only  come  to  accept 
the  future  but  the  loyalty  of  the  girl.  Though 
the  real  relations  between  them  had  been  wordless, 
to  him  a  bond  had  been  signed. 


38  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Instinctively  the  two  drew  together  as  the 
party  rose  from  the  table  and  went  into  the  living 
room.  Their  eyes  met  in  a  perfect  understanding. 
Their  heads  were  bent  and  a  whispered  pleasantry 
passed  between  them. 

Mrs.  Osborne  directly  in  front,  saw  Wickson 
stare  for  a  moment.  She  saw  the  light  in  his 
eyes,  a  light  that  flared  to  incandescence  as  he 
turned  swiftly  and  strode  on.  Straight  across  the 
room  he  went  until  he  was  before  his  accustomed 
seat  in  a  big  chair  by  the  table.  But  he  did  not 
sit  down.  For  a  moment  he  stood  watching  Phil 
and  Joyce  as  they  chatted  in  the  doorway. 

"Boynton,"  the  district  manager  broke  in  upon 
them.  "Come  over  to  the  office  with  me." 

Phil,  startled,  turned  from  Joyce.  Every  one 
was  looking  at  him.  Every  one  was  silent,  tense, 
expectant.  He  saw  for  the  first  time  the  expres- 
sion on  Wickson's  face.  Just  a  little  puzzled, 
but  a  smile  still  parting  his  lips,  he  glanced  again 
about  the  room. 

"Certainly,"  he  answered.  "Whenever  you 
say,"  and  he  turned  to  Joyce  as  she  stood  in  the 
doorway. 

"Now!"  snapped  Wickson. 

He  walked  quickly  across  the  room  and  out  into 
the  hall.  Even  the  slamming  of  the  outer  door 
did  not  arouse  the  group  in  the  living  room.  Phil, 
startled  again  by  the  district  manager's  tone, 
glanced  up  to  find  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Osborne  and  the 
two  apprentice  clerks  still  looking  at  him. 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  POST  39 

If  he  grasped  the  situation  he  did  not  show  it. 
Quite  pleasantly  and  naturally  he  excused  himself 
and  went  out.  A  minute  later  he  found  Wickson 
seated  at  his  desk  in  the  office  across  the  stockade. 

"You're  going  to  Fort  Dease,  Boynton,"  the 
district  manager  began  at  once.  "Be  ready  to 
start  to-morrow  morning." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    CHALLENGE 

THERE  isn't  any  opposition  there!"   Phil 
exclaimed. 
He  had  been  so  confident  of  getting  Long 
Point  post,  of  having  an  opportunity  to  show  again 
what  he  could   do,   his  only  explanation  of  this 
action  was  that  a  rival  had  unexpectedly  chosen 
the  isolated  post  for  attack. 

"No,"  Wickson  replied,  with  ostensible  signi- 
ficance. "There  is  no  opposition  at  Fort  Dease." 

There  was  defiance,  a  challenge,  in  his  eyes  and 
bearing  as  he  spoke.  For  a  moment  Phil  returned 
the  stare. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  quietly.  "It's  still  Peniten- 
tiary Post." 

"It's  a  post  that  needs  a  manager  at  once,  and 
you  start  to-morrow  morning,"  snapped  Wick- 
son. 

Phil  did  not  reply.  Quite  coolly,  a  little  con- 
temptuously, he  studied  his  superior.  It  irritated 
Wickson,  and  again  he  burst  out: 

"No  Split  Rock  business  this  winter,  either, 
Boynton!  I  won't  have  a  post  in  my  district  left 
without  any  one  to  handle  it." 

"I  understand  you  perfectly,"  Phil  said,  quietly. 


THE  CHALLENGE  41 

"It  would  never  do  to  leave  Fort  Dease  unpro- 
tected." 

Because  of  the  peculiar  condition  of  affairs  at 
Fort  Dease,  it  was  seldom  visited  by  the  Indians 
except  in  the  summer,  and  it  was  known  through- 
out the  fur  land  as  the  post  where  there  was 
practically  no  work  to  do  for  nine  months  in  the 
year. 

But  the  irony  of  Phil's  statement  did  not  anger 
Wickson  further.  The  district  manager  realized 
the  mistake  he  had  made  in  not  hiding  his  real 
reasons  for  sending  an  efficient  man  to  an  unim- 
portant post. 

"You'll  have  your  hands  full  out  there,"  he  said 
in  his  usual  tone.  "Some  Indian  or  other  started 
conjuring  or  saw  a  weeteego.  The  whole  band  is 
stirred  up  and  needs  calming  down." 

But  he  did  not  deceive  Phil,  nor  was  the  story 
of  panicky  Indians  accepted  as  the  truth. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "I'll  be  ready  to  start  in 
two  days." 

"You  start  to-morrow  morning!"  Wickson 
commanded. 

Still  as  cool  as  before,  Phil  stared  straight  into 
his  superior's  eyes. 

"I  think  we  understand  each  other  perfectly," 
he  said.  "I'll  be  ready  to  start  in  two  days." 

He  arose  at  once  and  walked  out.  Wickson 
watched  him  go  without  a  word. 

The  young  man  who  left  the  office  was  not  the 
same  who  had  entered  it  less  than  five  minutes 


42  PENITENTIARY  POST 

before.  The  careless,  thoughtless,  heedless  boy- 
ishness was  gone.  Adolescence  had  been  shed  as 
if  it  had  been  what  in  reality  it  was — a  cloak  long 
outgrown  but  which  still  fitted  admirably. 

The  garment  which  took  its  place  was  even  more 
comfortable,  however.  The  big,  tall,  well-pro- 
portioned body  had  a  better  swing,  a  more  con- 
fident carriage.  The  stride  was  quickened.  The 
shoulders  were  set  purposefully.  The  chin  was  at 
a  new  angle.  A  certain  laughing  light  was  gone 
from  the  eyes.  Tightened  muscles  at  the  back 
of  the  jaw  gave  the  cheeks  an  appearance  of  having 
suddenly  flattened. 

Wickson,  as  he  watched  from  his  office  window, 
caught  something  of  this,  but  not  much.  He  only 
smiled  confidently  as  he  saw  Phil  crossing  to  the 
dwelling  house  and  turned  back  to  his  desk. 
Patience  is  one  of  the  great  lessons  the  Northland 
teaches,  and  the  district  manager  had  learned  them 
all.  What  were  two  days,  he  thought,  against 
the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  to  follow? 

Joyce  Plummer,  however,  read  all  that  Wickson 
had  missed,  and  while  it  brought  its  first  flash  of 
joy,  she  knew  instantly  that  something  serious, 
possibly  tragic,  had  caused  the  change. 

She  was  alone  in  the  living  room  when  he  en- 
tered. Mrs.  Osborne  had  dragged  her  husband 
away  to  tell  him  what  she  had  read  where  he  had 
been  bewildered,  and  the  two  apprentice  clerks, 
oppressed  by  the  suspense-charged  air,  had  retired 
to  the  bachelor  quarters. 


THE  CHALLENGE  43 

"What  is  it?"  Joyce  demanded  as  Phil  stood 
smiling  at  her. 

"Nothing  at  all,"  he  insisted. 

"But  there  is  something.  I  know  it.  Every- 
one knew  it.  What  did  he  do?" 

"'He  wanted  me  to  start  for  my  post  to-morrow 
morning,  and  I  merely  told  him  I  wouldn't  be 
ready  for  two  days." 

"But  why  should  he  be  in  such  a  hurry?  Long 
Point  isn't  far." 

She  flushed  and  then  added,  quickly: 

"Mrs.  Osborne  told  me." 

"Long  Point  isn't  my  post,  I'm  afraid,"  Phil 
said  as  lightly  as  he  could.  "Wickson  has  some- 
one else  for  it." 

"Not  Long  Point!"  Joyce  cried,  in  bewilderment. 
"Why,  he  told  Mr.  Osborne  he  would  send  you 
there,  not  an  hour  after  we  arrived  to-day.  They  all 
say  you're  j  ust  the  man  for  it.  Where  will  you  go  ? " 

"Fort  Dease." 

"You!     Penitentiary  Post!" 

She  stared  at  him  in  growing  terror.  Not  for  an 
instant  did  she  doubt  her  senses.  Things  that  had 
passed  unnoticed  flashed  back  with  their  true 
significance.  Wickson's  attentions  at  dinner,  the 
sudden,  curt  command  at  the  end  of  the  meal,  the 
strained  silence  that  had  followed  the  departure  of 
the  two  for  the  office,  each  suddenly  revealed  its 
true  signifiance. 

"You!  Penitentiary  Post!"  she  repeated  in  a 
whisper. 


44  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Phil  laughed.  He  had  to  laugh.  It  was  the 
only  thing  he  could  do.  In  that  short  walk 
across  the  stockade  from  the  office  he  had  steeled 
himself  not  to  speak  to  this  girl  of  his  love  for  her. 
He  had  determined  to  go  away  without  a  word, 
to  wait  until  he  had  something  besides  a  desolate 
hovel  in  a  desolate  land  to  offer  her.  He  had  sud- 
denly realized  that  his  love  must  find  expression 
in  success  on  his  part  before  he  could  make  it 
known.  He  had  been  brought  up  with  a  jerk  by 
what  he  saw  was  his  own  unfitness.  In  such  a 
land,  with  such  a  girl,  it  must  be  a  man  who  offers 
himself,  not  a  boy. 

It  was  this  thing  that  had  changed  Phil  so  com- 
pletely, which  had  stiffened  and  hardened  him,  had 
made  him  realize  his  manhood  and  what  it  entailed. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  found  himself 
confronted  with  a  responsibility.  For  the  first  time 
he  knew  that  time  is  separated  into  three  divisions 
whereas  he  had  recognized  only  one.  The  present 
suddenly  became  dependent  upon  the  future. 

And  so  Phil  laughed.  Had  he  not  laughed  he 
would  have  swept  her  into  his  arms.  He  would 
have  kissed  the  fear  from  her  eyes.  He  would 
have  whispered  endearments  into  the  ears  he  had 
just  shocked  with  his  announcement. 

"It  seems,"  he  smiled,  "that  my  services  are  not 
quite  so  valuable  as  I  had  thought." 

But  Joyce's  expression  did  not  change.  She 
seemed  not  to  have  heard  what  he  said. 

"I  can't  forgive  myself,  Phil,"  she  exclaimed. 


THE  CHALLENGE  45 

"I'm  to  blame  for  it  all.  It's  my  fault.  I'd  give 
anything  if  I  could  undo  it,  and  you  could  have 
what  you  deserve." 

Again  he  laughed,  though  this  time  there  was  a 
strain  of  joy  in  it  that  he  could  not  down. 

"Nonsense!"  he  protested.  "I'm  being  pun- 
ished for  my  little  huff  at  Split  Rock.  Wickson 
and  Borthwick  are  probably  friends,  and  of  course 
Borthwick  hasn't  forgiven  me  as  I  started  the 
revolt  that  cost  him  his  district." 

"It's  my  fault,"  she  repeated,  dully. 

"You're  mistaken  entirely,"  Phil  declared,  em- 
phatically. "Wickson  has  just  received  word 
that  the  Indians  have  been  all  worked  up  by  some 
conjuring  business  and  may  leave  the  district.  He 
wants  me  to  get  out  there  as  soon  as  possible  and 
quiet  them  down." 

"But  Wickson  doesn't  believe  those  stories  that 
have  come  from  Fort  Dease.  He  told  Mr.  Osborne 
so.  He  said  this  poor  fellow  had  only  become 
deranged  because  he  couldn't  stand  the  solitude. 
He  doesn't  think  there  is  trouble  there." 

"Perhaps  he  has  had  later  advices.  I  think  so, 
from  what  he  said." 

"But  Mrs.  Osborne  told  me  no  other  word  had 
been  received  from  Fort  Dease  since  the  first  of 
last  winter." 

"You're  not  accustomed  to  fort  rumours  and 
don't  know  how  to  discount  them,"  laughed 
Phil.  "People  have  nothing  to  do  but  let  their 
imaginations  run  riot." 


46  PENITENTIARY  POST 

But  Joyce  was  stubborn,  stubborn  with  the 
assurance  that  she  was  right.  And  she  was  face  to 
face  with  the  North  country,  the  land  of  terrific 
distances,  of  wordless  winters,  of  fear-breeding 
uncertainty.  She  knew  why  Phil  was  being  sent 
to  this  distant,  desolate  spot.  She  knew  there 
would  be  no  word  from  him  for  a  year.  The  story 
of  the  former  manager,  brought  out  a  babbling 
idiot,  was  still  fresh  and  haunting.  Her  canoe 
journey  had  given  her  a  glimpse  of  the  grim,  for- 
bidding nature  of  the  North,  of  its  silent,  op- 
pressive malevolence. 

Fort  Dease — Penitentiary  Post — had  become 
the  incarnation  of  all  that  was  mysterious  and  re- 
pellent in  a  land  that  mystified  and  repelled.  To 
Joyce  it  had  come  to  typify  the  wide,  lifeless, 
sullen  wastes,  the  dark, ominous,  courage-gnawing 
winters,  the  hunger  and  the  cold  and  the  loneli- 
ness which  only  the  North  can  cause.  To  her, 
too,  it  was  the  fount  of  all  that  was  dim  and  un- 
certain and  shadowy.  It  was  the  source  of  terrors 
and  terrifying  things. 

She  was  suddenly  overwhelmed  with  the  dread 
of  it.  She  forgot  where  she  was,  forgot  that  Phil 
had  never  spoken  a  word  of  love,  forgot  everything 
except  the  one  fact  that  he  was  going  to  this  place 
where  anything  might  happen. 

"Phil,  Phil!"  she  cried.  "You  can't  go 
there!" 

She  stepped  closer,  grasped  his  coat  with  both 
hands,  her  face  turned  just  beneath  his.  Her  eyes 


THE  CHALLENGE  47 

pleaded,  told  of  her  fear,  but  they  made  known  also 
the  love  which  prompted  her  action. 

For  a  moment  Phil  stood  resolute,  fighting  his 
desire  and  the  weakness  that  had  seized  him. 
Then  as  a  torrent  that  will  not  be  denied  by  the 
strongest  barrier  man  can  build,  his  longing  over- 
came all  else,  and  he  threw  his  arms  around  her. 

"Sweetheart!"  he  whispered  in  a  strange,  husky 
voice. 

For  a  time  they  clung  to  each  other.  They 
did  not  speak.  They  did  not  even  think.  Fort 
Dease,  the  future,  nothing  mattered.  Wickson 
was  forgotten,  the  separation  they  faced,  the  un- 
certainty of  everything.  Love  had  gripped  them, 
had  filled  their  hearts  and  their  minds. 

Joyce  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"I'll  be  brave,"  she  whispered.  "But,  dear,  I 
don't  want  you  to  go." 

"It's  only  for  a  year,"  he  assured  her.  "I'll 
ask  for  a  transfer  from  this  district  next  summer, 
and  when  we  go  we'll  go  together." 

"But  this  year!     Fort  Dease!" 

"I  don't  dread  that  in  the  least.  I've  been 
through  worse  than  Penitentiary  Post." 

"But  there  is  something  the  matter,  something 
terrible  there." 

"Just  imagination.  Spirits  don't  visit  Fort 
Dease  any  more  than  they  haunt  Trafalgar 
Square.  Only,  dear,  I  don't  like  to  leave  you 
here." 

"Don't   worry    about   me!"  Joyce   exclaimed, 


48  PENITENTIARY  POST 

fiercely.     "I  know  what  you  mean.     But  nothing 
can  happen.     I'm  yours,  dearest,  only  yours." 

Two  days  later  Phil  left  Savant  House  for  Fort 
Dease.  Two  Indians  were  to  paddle  him  to  a 
post  two  hundred  miles  to  the  east.  There, 
two  more  would  take  him  another  hundred  miles 
to  an  outpost,  where  another  relay  of  canoemen 
would  take  him  on  to  Fort  Dease.  In  this  way 
each  pair  of  paddlers  would  have  time  to  return 
before  the  first  ice  of  winter  should  catch  them. 

For  Phil  it  was  unlike  any  other  journey  he  had 
ever  taken  in  the  Northland.  He  had  books,  but 
he  did  not  read  as  the  men  drove  the  canoe  up- 
stream or  across  lakes.  For  hours  at  a  time  he 
would  lie  back  on  his  blankets.  Usually  only  rosy 
dreams  came,  but  always  there  was  present  a  dread 
of  what  the  year  might  bring,  a  dread  of  Wickson. 

He  had  not  meant  to  speak  to  Joyce.  He 
was  a  little  ashamed  of  himself  for  having  given 
way  to  a  sudden  impulse.  He  felt  that  he  had  had 
no  right  to  speak.  His  future  was  uncertain. 
He  was  in  debt  to  the  Company  for  half  a  year's 
salary.  For  years  he  might  be  shunted  about 
from  one  remote  post  to  another.  He  really  had 
nothing  to  offer,  and  he  had  no  right  to  ask  Joyce 
to  share  the  uncertainty  of  his  future. 

Phil  spent  one  night  only  at  his  first  stopping- 
place.  Lowry,  the  post-manager,  tried  to  induce 
him  to  remain  at  least  a  week. 

"Wickson  will  never  know,"  he  urged.     "He's 


THE  CHALLENGE  49 

a  fox  to  find  out  everything  that  goes  on  in  his 
district,  but  what  if  he  does?" 

But  Phil  had  determined  to  go  on  as  quickly  as 
possible.  A  week  before  he  would  have  remained 
two  weeks,  taking  his  chances  on  getting  to  Fort 
Dease  before  ice  stopped  the  canoe.  Now,  in  his 
suddenly  awakened  manhood,  he  was  intent  only 
on  reaching  his  work.  He  intended  to  conduct 
the  business  of  his  post  as  though  it  were  the  most 
important  in  the  district  instead  of  the  least  im- 
portant in  fur  land.  He  would  not  leave  Wickson 
a  loophole  for  complaint  or  reprimand.  Hence- 
forth his  record  was  to  be  irreproachable,  one  that 
would  compel  attention.  Something  other  than 
loyalty  to  the  Company  was  forcing  him  now. 

Phil's  dread  of  Wickson,  or,  rather,  of  what 
Wickson  might  do,  drove  him  to  discreet  inquiries, 
however.  Lowry  knew  the  district  manager  well 
and  was  a  willing  talker. 

"It's  Company  first  with  him,  always,"  he  said. 
"He's  worse  than  an  old-timer  because  his  father 
and  his  grandfather  were  old-timers.  He's  as 
much  of  this  country  as  any  Indian.  The  Com- 
pany's regulations  are  the  only  Bible  he  knows. 
I  suppose  it  takes  generations  to  breed  the  supreme 
devotion  to  the  H.  B.  C.  that  Wickson  has." 

"It's  too  bad  it  doesn't  breed  brains  as  well!" 
Phil  exploded,  despite  himself. 

Lowry  laughed. 

"Think  you're  too  good  for  Penitentiary  Post, 
eh?  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Boynton.  You  started 


SO  PENITENTIARY  POST 

something  last  winter  and  Wickson  probably 
thinks  it's  his  duty  to  let  you  down  for  it.  No, 
Wickson  would  send  his  own  brother  to  Dease  if  he 
thought  he  should  be  sent  there.  There's  only  one 
thing  I  ever  expect  to  see  upset  Wickson  and  that's 
a  woman.  It  never  has  yet.  He  has  never  had 
the  time,  or  the  opportunity.  Probably  never 
happened  to  think  of  them. 

"But  he's  that  kind.  I  don't  mean  he'd  be  a 
devil  with  women.  There's  a  queer  streak  in 
Wickson.  He's  pretty  much  of  a  savage  and  hard 
and  reckless.  He'd  be  square  with  them.  No 
caveman  about  him  if  he  does  lack  varnish.  But 
he'd  be  invincible,  too.  I'd  like  to  watch  him.  I 
know  what  his  methods  would  be." 

Early  the  next  morning  Phil  went  on,  two  new 
Indians  paddling  him.  The  two  who  returned  to 
Savant  House  carried  a  long  letter  to  Joyce.  It 
was  the  third  Phil  had  written  after  Lowry  had 
gone  to  bed.  He  could  not  keep  his  fear  of 
Wickson  from  the  first  two. 

That  same  morning  Joyce  had  been  romping 
about  the  stockade  with  the  Osborne  children. 
At  last  the  older  ones  had  run  off  with  some  Indian 
youngsters,  leaving  the  little  girl  with  their  teacher. 
Joyce  had  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  dwelling  house, 
telling  stories,  until  the  kiddy  went  to  sleep  in  her 
arms.  Fearful  of  awakening  it,  she  sat  there  in 
silence  near  the  open  living-room  window. 

After  a  time  she  heard  Mrs.  Osborne  enter  the 


THE  CHALLENGE  51 

room  and  sit  down  at  her  sewing  table.     A  few 
minutes  later  Osborne  joined  her. 

"I  guess  there's  something  in  that  Fort  Dease 
business  after  all,"  he  began  at  once.  "I  was 
talking  this  morning  with  old  Joe.  He's  pretty 
sensible  about  all  this  Indian  conjuring  business 
and  the  weeteego  nonsense  and  he  says  he's  sure 
there's  something  behind  the  stories  those  Fort 
Dease  Indians  told  while  they  were  here.  He  says 
it's  something  more  than  imagination,  and  some- 
thing more  than  spirits,  that  drove  the  post- 
manager  out  of  his  head.  If  he  believed  like  the 
other  Indians,  he  told  me,  he'd  think  it  was  a 
weeteego,  but  he  says  a  weeteego  seldom  leaves 
tracks,  and  whatever  has  been  haunting  Fort 
Dease  left  a  trail  unlike  anything  ever  seen  before." 


CHAPTER  V 

PENITENTIARY   POST 

FORT  DEASE  stands  on  the  farther  edge 
of  the  newest,  rawest  land  on  the  globe. 
The  rare  geologists  who  have  seen  it  call  it 
"juvenile,"    "immature."     The    few   white    men 
who  visit  it  never  willingly  return. 

Only  yesterday,  as  the  earth  measures  time, 
this  land  lay  under  the  sea.  Only  last  night  it 
rose  above  the  surface,  bare,  flat,  brine-dripping, 
sodden.  To-day  it  stands  as  the  last  reminder  of 
what  an  unspeakably  repellent  place  our  earth  was 
an  astral  month  ago. 

Bordering  an  empty  inland  sea  more  than  three 
times  as  large  as  all  the  Great  Lakes  combined,  it  vies 
with  the  waste  of  water  in  emptiness  but  bows  to  it  in 
diversity.  The  sea  is  a  thing  of  many  moods,  raging, 
inviting,  restless,  uncertain.  The  land  is  unchange- 
ably sullen,  unimaginably  dreary.  It  only  broods. 

It  is  empty  of  every  living  thing.  In  the 
same  latitude  as  the  latest  world  garden  in  the 
West,  it  lies  barren  and  void.  As  far  as  the  eye 
can  see  from  the  shore  there  are  only  marshes  and 
gravel  stretches,  desolate  plains  of  coarse  grass  and 
sedge.  When  the  tide  goes  out  it  leaves  a  great, 
ugly  expanse  of  boulder-strewn  mud. 


PENITENTIARY  POST  53 

Far  back  from  the  inland  sea  little  trees  began  a 
fight  which  they  seem  to  have  abandoned  as  soon 
as  they  had  lifted  their  heads  high  enough  to  know 
what  had  given  them  birth.  Stunted,  unnatural 
spruce  and  larch,  they  serve  only  to  add  to  the 
desolate  aspect. 

A  few  ptarmigan  live  in  the  low  shelter  of  this 
puny  forest.  Otherwise,  except  on  its  western 
and  southern  borders,  the  land  is  too  inhospitable, 
even  for  those  animals  which  thrive  a  thousand 
miles  nearer  the  Arctic. 

No  Indians  live  in  it.  One  hundred  miles  back 
from  the  inland  ocean  they  struggled  through  an 
uncertain  winter,  always  facing  starvation,  always 
dependent  upon  the  two  or  three  forts  such  as 
Dease.  Without  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  the 
land  would  be  absolutely  tenantless,  and  even  its 
efforts  seem  pitifully  weak  in  the  dreary,  desolate 
dawn  of  an  azoic  waste. 

Rivers  thread  this  land,  rough,  raw,  rushing 
streams  that  have  scarred  the  surface  with  their 
newly  cut  banks  of  clay.  They  wander  in  places, 
as  if  seeking  a  river's  natural  heritage,  a  valley, 
only  to  mingle  with  the  tide  at  last  without  ever 
having  attained  individuality. 

The  streams,  the  forest,  the  marshes,  the  flat 
shore,  the  ugly  tide  wastes,  all  contribute  to  the 
monotony  and  the  rawness  and  the  horrible  empti- 
ness. It  is  not  a  land  God  forgot  or  shunned.  It 
is  a  land  He  never  saw. 

Into  the  centre  of  it  came  Philip  Boynton.     He 


54  PENITENTIARY  POST 

had  not  seen  it  before,  but  he  had  seen  others 
nearly  as  bad,  and  it  did  not  oppress  him.  There 
were  other  things  of  more  importance  in  Phil's  life 
than  his  physical  surroundings,  other  things  that 
demanded  all  his  free  moments,  and  luckily  for  him 
there  was  little  time  for  brooding  over  the  dreari- 
ness that  came  from  within. 

More  than  forty  Indian  hunters  and  their  fam- 
ilies were  camped  about  the  fort,  nearly  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  in  all,  and  each  dependent  upon 
Phil  and  the  Company  for  the  means  of  living 
through  the  winter.  They  were  silent,  sullen, 
restless,  as  men  might  be  when  they  face  famine 
and  the  quick  winter.  It  was  long  past  the  usual 
time  of  departure  for  their  hunting  grounds  far 
back  from  the  sea,  and  they  were  anxious  to  be 
away  before  the  ice  caught  them. 

Supplies  for  Fort  Dease  were  brought  down  the 
coast  in  a  sailboat  from  Fort  Berens,  whence  they 
had  been  sent  by  the  same  method  from  the  great 
depot  beyond.  It  is  the  duty  of  the  Fort  Dease 
manager  to  make  this  annual,  precarious  trip  to 
Fort  Berens  but  Phil's  predecessor  had  not  been 
able  to  do  so  and  the  work  had  been  done  by  the 
Fort  Berens  manager.  He  had  supervised  the 
transportation,  had  seen  that  the  goods  were  stored 
properly  and  then  had  departed,  leaving  a  half- 
breed,  Sandy  Thunder,  in  charge. 

Sandy,  who  had  long  been  the  manager's  sole 
servant  at  Fort  Dease,  had  instructions  to  wait 
until  a  certain  time  for  the  arrival  of  a  new  man- 


PENITENTIARY  POST  55 

ager  from  Savant  House.  If  he  had  not  arrived, 
Sandy  was  to  fit  out  the  hunters  and  send  them  off 
to  their  districts. 

Phil  arrived  two  days  before  this  specified 
time  and  of  necessity  he  plunged  at  once  into 
the  work  of  outfitting  the  Indians.  He  had 
little  leisure  to  study  his  hunters,  either  while  he 
traded  with  them  or  through  that  cold  record  of  the 
Indian's  character,  the  fort  journal.  This  is  so 
kept  that  each  succeeding  manager  may  learn  how 
reliable  each  hunter  is,  how  industrious,  and  how 
much  debt  he  should  be  granted. 

But,  before  he  passed  a  pound  of  supplies 
over  the  counter,  Phil  performed  that  duty  of  all 
managers  to  themselves  in  isolated  posts.  He 
selected  several  months'  provisions  for  two,  meas- 
uring generously,  and  set  them  aside,  to  be  placed 
in  a  cache  away  from  the  buildings.  Hudson's 
Bay  Company  men  reduce  so  far  as  possible  the 
chance  of  being  left  to  starve  as  a  result  of  fire. 

In  three  days  the  last  of  the  Indians  had  re- 
ceived his  debt.  Phil  worked  so  hard  and  so 
rapidly  that  he  did  not  realize  the  unusual  speed 
with  which  they  left  the  fort.  He  rushed  them 
through  so  quickly  that  he  had  no  time  for  gossip, 
that  greatest  source  of  a  post-manager's  informa- 
tion as  to  conditions  in  his  territory.  He  was  too 
busy  even  to  notice  the  uneasiness  of  the  men, 
the  nervous  manner  of  the  women,  or  the  frightened, 
shifting  glances  of  the  children. 

With  Sandy  to  assist  him,  he  worked  from  early 


56  PENITENTIARY  POST 

in  the  morning  until  late  at  night,  and  even  from 
the  half-breed  he  failed  to  obtain  a  hint  as  to  the 
state  of  mind  of  his  hunters.  He  knew  only  that 
they  had  far  to  travel  and  that  time  was  short. 
Each  must  track  his  load  up  swift  rivers,  pushing 
through  matted  willows  on  the  banks,  and  even 
then  many  might  not  reach  their  hunting-grounds 
before  the  ice  barred  their  highways. 

The  morning  of  the  fourth  day  Phil  had  his 
first  opportunity  to  inspect  the  place  that  was  to 
be  his  home  for  a  year.  The  fort  was  built  at  the 
mouth  of  Cut-Bank  River.  The  stream  ran 
twenty  feet  below  the  buildings,  which  were  set  on 
the  dead  level  of  all  the  country. 

Over  the  land  as  over  the  sea  the  view  was  un- 
obstructed, without  change.  Southeast  and  north- 
west the  shore  stretched  interminably,  monoto- 
nously. Twice  each  day  it  thrust  itself  far  out  in 
pursuit  of  the  receding  tide,  only  to  retreat  as 
often.  Back  of  the  shore  was  the  same  unchange- 
able view,  a  country  perfectly  flat,  perfectly  bare 
except  for  the  coarse  grass  and  sedge.  Still 
farther  back,  at  the  limit  of  vision,  was  a  thin, 
black  line,  the  beginning  of  the  stunted  timber. 

The  buildings,  as  at  most  posts  since  the  stock- 
ade became  unnecessary,  were  inclosed  in  the 
usual  picket  fence.  They  did  not  differ  from  those 
of  any  small  post  except  in  size,  a  fact  readily  ex- 
plained by  one  sweep  of  the  eye  around  the  treeless 
horizon.  It  had  been  necessary  to  bring  the  build- 
ing timber  more  than  one  hundred  miles  down  the 


PENITENTIARY  POST  57 

Cut-Bank  in  rafts,  and  logs  were  too  valuable  to  be 
wasted. 

There  was  a  dwelling  house,  a  small,  square, 
one-story  building  made  of  logs  and  sheathed  out- 
side with  whipsawed  siding.  There  were  the  trad- 
ing shop,  the  warehouse,  and  the  servants'  house. 
Outside  the  fence  stood  the  inevitable  Indian 
house.  Back  of  the  trading  shop  was  the  dog 
yard,  and  that  was  all. 

Inside  the  fence  and  out  the  ground  was  packed 
hard  in  dry  weather  and  a  mess  of  sticky  clay  in 
wet.  Grass  grew  in  patches.  Paths  led  here  and 
there,  paths  that  dwindled  out  despondently  in 
the  bog. 

Phil's  house  was  divided  into  four  rooms.  The 
front  door  opened  upon  a  hall  which  led  back  to  the 
kitchen.  The  other  corner  at  the  rear  was  oc- 
cupied by  the  dining  room.  In  the  front  of  the 
hall,  doors  opened  into  Phil's  bedroom  on  the  left 
and  the  living  room  on  the  right. 

Sandy  Thunder  slept  in  the  kitchen.  The 
servants'  house  had  long  been  unoccupied.  Sandy 
had  been  the  only  servant,  and,  with  the  manager, 
had  constituted  the  sole  population.  He  did  the 
cooking,  the  chores,  and  the  few  odd  jobs  necessary. 
Generally  he  sat  beside  his  cook  stove  and  smoked 
a  pipe  for  hours  at  a  time. 

"Well,  Sandy,"  Phil  said  the  first  night  they 
were  alone  together  and  the  half-breed  was  serving 
his  supper,  "the  hunters  have  gone  and  mighty 


58  PENITENTIARY  POST 

glad  they  seemed  to  get  away,  too.  It  isn't  going 
to  freeze  hard  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  is  it?" 

"Most  often  next  month,  early,"  Sandy  an- 
swered. 

"I  thought  so.  But  an  Indian  always  wants 
to  be  certain.  Anyhow,  they  can't  kick  about 
being  late.  They'll  make  it,  but  you  would  have 
thought  it  was  going  to  freeze  to-morrow  the  way 
they  got  out  as  soon  as  they  received  their  debt." 

"It  not  the  ice  that  makes  them  hurry.  It  the 
weeteego." 

"Nonsense!"  Phil  was  about  to  exclaim,  but  a 
quick  look  told  him  that  Sandy  believed  implicitly 
in  the  evil  spirit. 

"I'll  have  to  look  into  the  weeteego  business," 
he  said,  soberly.  "The  Company  can't  have  its 
hunters  driven  away.  I'll  take  care  of  this  thing 
before  the  Indians  come  back  again." 

Sandy  glanced  uneasily  at  his  master.  Phil 
had  spoken  confidently,  and  many  white  men  had 
powers  Indians  could  not  attain,  especially  Com- 
pany men. 

"This  is  a  bad  weeteego,"  he  offered.  "He 
travel  like  the  wind.  To-day  he  be  here.  To- 
morrow he  be  way  off." 

"Do  you  really  believe  there  is  a  weeteego, 
Sandy?" 

"Me  know  it,"  was  the  ready,  confident  reply. 

"You  haven't  seen  him?" 

"Me  hear  him." 

"  Sure  it  wasn't  the  wind  ? " 


PENITENTIARY  POST  59 

"The  wind  no  make  noise  like  a  gun." 

"But  an  Indian  might  have  fired  the  gun." 

"Over  there,"  and  Sandy  swept  his  arm  toward 
the  great  bog  to  the  south,  "no  Indian  ever  go. 
Last  fall  after  hunters  are  all  gone,  just  at  dark, 
me  hear  gun  over  there.  That  the  weeteego." 

It  was  only  a  confirmation  that  the  man  had 
been  misled  by  his  imagination,  but  Phil  had 
always  been  interested  in  this  strange  superstition 
common  to  northern  Indians  and  he  saw  in  it  not 
only  a  chance  to  accomplish  something  worth 
while  in  the  interests  of  the  Company  but  enter- 
tainment as  well. 

"But,  Sandy,"  he  protested,  "how  can  a 
weeteego  shoot  a  real  gun  that  makes  a  real  noise?" 

"A  weeteego  he  do  anything,"  was  the  solemn 
reply. 

"But  you  haven't  heard  anything  except  this 
gun?" 

"That  man  here  last  year,  you  no  see  him  go 
out?"  Sandy  countered. 

"No,  he  left  Savant  House  before  I  got  there." 

"He  see  the  weeteego." 

Phil  kept  a  straight  countenance  with  difficulty. 

"Where?  "he  asked. 

"In  this  house.  The  weeteego  open  the  door 
to  his  room  and  look  in.  Not  once  but  many 
times.  That  man  he  sleep  with  a  gun  beside  him 
all  the  time." 

"What  do  you  do,  Sandy?" 

"Me  lock  the  door  with  the  bar  and  keep  a  knife 


60  PENITENTIARY  POST 

always  sharp.  But  the  weeteego  never  come  near 
me.  Only  the  other  room." 

"Well,  get  the  supper  on  the  table,  Sandy,  and 
I'll  think  over  this  business.  I've  got  some  bad 
medicine  for  weeteegos." 

But  Phil  didn't  think  over  the  weeteego  business. 
It  didn't  bother  him  any  more  than  a  child's 
stories  of  ghosts  would  have  given  him  the  creeps. 
After  supper  he  sat  in  the  living  room,  trying  to 
read.  But  always  a  face  appeared  on  each  page, 
a  face  that  grew  in  distinctness  until  the  type 
was  blotted  out,  and  at  last  he  laid  down  the 
book. 

Outside  a  cold,  raw  fall  storm  was  on.  Rain 
pelted  against  the  building  and  fell  in  sheets  from 
the  eaves.  The  wind,  unobstructed  for  scores 
and  scores  of  miles,  rattled  loose  boards  in  the  sid- 
ing and  seemed  at  times  strong  enough  to  lift  the 
house  and  hurl  it  into  the  river.  Mingled  with  it 
was  the  noise  of  the  surf  on  the  beach. 

At  last  Phil  went  to  bed.  Joyce  and  Wickson 
and  what  Lowry  had  told  him  of  the  district 
manager,  these  were  far  more  important  than 
Indian  superstitions,  and  he  dropped  off  to  sleep 
without  another  thought  of  the  weeteego. 

He  wakened  early.  Sandy  evidently  was  not 
up.  So  Phil  lay  in  bed  as  had  long  been  his 
custom.  There  is  no  reason  why  lonely  post- 
managers  should  keep  energetic  hours.  At  last 
he  heard  his  servant  rattling  the  stove  lids  and 
moving  about  in  the  preparation  of  the  morning 


PENITENTIARY  POST  61 

meal.  When  he  judged  that  it  was  about  ready 
he  got  up  and  dressed. 

Still  lazily,  for  he  had  all  winter  in  which  to  do 
what  little  work  lay  before  him,  Phil  went  out 
after  breakfast  and  strolled  down  the  shore  past 
the  Indian  house.  The  sky  had  cleared  and  the 
sun  was  an  hour  out  of  the  sea. 

He  was  watching  the  sun,  the  only  pleasant 
thing  to  be  seen  in  all  the  desolate  vastness  about 
him,  and  it  was  not  until  he  splashed  into  a  puddle 
that  he  saw  where  he  was  going. 

His  course  had  taken  him  into  the  bare,  smooth 
spot  where  the  Indians  had  camped,  just  beyond 
the  Indian  house.  And  as  he  looked  at  the  ground 
he  stopped,  startled.  Before  him  moulded  firmly, 
clearly,  unmistakably,  in  the  mud,  was  the  print 
of  a  human  foot.  Not  moccasined  nor  shod  in  any 
skin  or  rubber,  but  bare,  naked,  with  little  ridges 
where  the  soft  clay  had  pressed  up  between  the  toes. 

For  a  moment  Phil  stared  at  the  track.  Then 
he  followed  it  on  across  the  camping  grounds  until 
it  was  lost  in  the  bog  beyond.  He  returned,  back- 
tracking, and  found  that  the  maker  of  the  prints 
had  come  from  the  Indian  house. 

"Sandy,"  Phil  muttered  to  himself,  "and 
deucedly  cold  to  be  trotting  around  in  his  bare  feet, 
too." 

Quite  casually,  he  opened  the  subject  with  Sandy 
an  hour  later. 

"Walking  around  for  the  fun  of  it  in  that  rain 
last  night?"  he  asked. 


62  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"Me  no  go  out  last  night." 

"Or  this  morning?" 

Sandy  shook  his  head. 

"When  it  is  dark  me  stay  in,"  he  declared, 
stoutly. 

"Come,  Sandy,  you're  not  afraid  of  this  wee- 
teego  ?" 

The  half-breed  shook  his  head  uncertainly. 

"Me  hear  him  last  night,"  he  said.  "He  holler 
like  a  wolf,  off  there  in  the  bog.  It  wake  me  up 
in  the  middle  of  the  night." 

"You  think  he  was  here  last  night?" 

"Me  hear  him." 

"But  it  might  have  been  the  wind." 

Sandy  went  to  the  kitchen  window  and  beckoned 
to  Phil  to  follow.  Silently  he  pointed  out  at  the 
soft,  glistening  clay. 

Leading  up  to  the  window  and  then  away  from  it 
were  tracks  made  by  bare,  naked  feet. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  SPECTRE  OF  FORT  DEASE 

THAT  day  Phil  and  Sandy  spent  build- 
ing a  cache  for  their  emergency  supply 
of  food.  Sandy  did  not  speak  of  the  wee- 
teego  again.  Phil  thought  of  the  strange  tracks 
several  times.  The  most  reasonable  explanation 
was  that  one  of  the  Indians  had  lingered  after  the 
others  or  returned  for  something  he  had  for- 
gotten. 

Only  the  fact  that  the  feet  were  bare  and  that 
the  tracks  led  up  to  the  window  perplexed  him. 
Curiosity  in  the  new  head  of  the  post  might  have 
prompted  a  peep  through  the  window.  But  it  was 
unnatural  for  an  Indian  to  have  done  so  when  his 
tracks  would  show  so  plainly.  Neither  was  it 
natural  for  one  to  go  barefoot.  Indians  are  always 
shod  and  not  even  the  hardiest  of  them  would 
wander  about  on  so  raw  a  night  in  his  naked  feet. 
Phil  resolved  to  keep  the  incident  in  mind.  Per- 
haps he  could  find  in  later  developments  some 
explanation  of  the  mysterious  visit. 

"We  put  the  gunpowder  in  the  cache,  too?" 
asked  Sandy  after  Phil  had  set  aside  the  provisions. 

"Why  gunpowder?" 

"We  always  do  at  this  fort.  One  keg.  Then 
63 


64  PENITENTIARY  POST 

if  anything  happens  to  the  trading  shop,  fire 
maybe,  there  is  gunpowder  for  the  Indians." 

Phil  saw  the  wisdom  of  the  plan  at  once. 
Indians  in  the  Fort  Dease  district  depend  almost 
entirely  on  gunpowder  for  their  winter's  food. 
They  take  a  little  pork  with  them  when  they  leave 
in  the  fall,  and  some  sugar  and  tea.  Almost  never 
do  they  take  flour.  But  powder  for  their  trade 
guns  is  an  imperative  necessity. 

"Yes,"  he  told  Sandy,  "put  in  a  keg.  It  will 
be  easy  enough  to  get  it  if  we  need  it." 

For  a  week  Phil  found  occupation  in  going  over 
the  stock  in  the  trading  shop,  getting  his  books  up 
to  date  and  rearranging  goods  on  the  shelves. 
Another  week  was  spent  in  directing  Sandy 
through  a  thorough  housecleaning  job,  one  that 
evidently  had  been  neglected  since  the  fall  before. 

Phil  himself  did  a  great  deal  of  manual  labour. 
He  had  discovered  in  those  first  three  days  of 
strenuous  work  outfitting  the  Indians  that  he  slept 
better  and  there  was  less  time  for  thinking. 
Thinking  had  come  to  mean  only  one  thing — 
Joyce  and  Wickson.  They  were  always  ready  to 
leap  to  the  front  whenever  idleness  permitted.  In 
the  long  journey  from  Savant  House,  and  espe- 
cially after  he  had  left  Lowry,  he  had  threshed  out 
the  whole  question.  He  had  approached  the  sub- 
ject from  every  angle.  He  had  convinced  himself 
of  the  loyalty  of  Joyce.  He  knew  her  love  was  not  a 
flash  in  the  pan  but  something  that  would  endure. 

He  had  weighed  Wickson  carefully  and  had  come 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  FORT  DEASE     65 

to  the  certain  conclusion  that  he  need  not  fear  the 
district  manager.  The  man  had  force,  determina- 
tion, brains.  He  was  a  big,  strong,  conquering 
Northman.  But  he  would  be  honest  with  Joyce 
if  he  had  not  been  with  Phil,  and  treachery  at  least 
was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

Phil,  knew,  too,  that  Wickson  started  with  the 
handicap  of  having  sent  him  to  Fort  Dease.  It 
had  aroused  Joyce  against  him,  had  brought  her 
contempt.  As  the  year  wore  on  and  she  thought 
of  him  out  there  alone  in  a  lifeless  world,  she 
would  come  to  loathe  the  cause  of  his  being  there. 

These  had  been  Phil's  sane  conclusions  on  his 
canoe  journey  to  Dease.  Fresh  from  Joyce's 
presence,  still  feeling  her  last  caress,  still  in  the 
ecstasy  of  that  last  moment  together,  it  was  only 
natural  that,  even  in  the  face  of  a  year's  separation, 
he  should  look  forward  with  assurance  to  their  re- 
union the  following  summer.  As  he  lay  back  in 
the  canoe,  looking  up  at  the  sky  or  with  his 
eyes  closed,  he  had  dreamed  jubilantly. 

Now,  in  a  brooding,  oppressive  land,  Phil 
began  to  brood  and  to  become  oppressed.  Winter 
was  coming  to  envelop  the  paleozoic  swamp  in 
which  he  lived,  coming  to  make  it  even  more  re- 
pellent, more  monotonous.  He  had  reached  the 
days  of  inevitable  inactivity,  the  days  that  were  to 
be  endless,  always  the  same.  More  and  more 
his  thoughts  dwelt  upon  Joyce,  and  upon  Wickson. 
His  first  misgivings  came,  not  doubts  of  Joyce 
herself  but  of  her  ability  to  win  in  the  fight  she 


66  PENITENTIARY  POST 

must  make.  He  became  self-condemnatory.  He 
had  had  no  right  to  speak  to  her  when  he  did.  He 
should  have  waited.  He  should  not  have  asked 
her  to  endure  what  Wickson's  jealous  love  would 
cause  her  to  endure. 

His  attitude  toward  Wickson  underwent  a 
gradual  change.  He  began  to  suspect  that  the 
district  manager  was  capable  of  anything.  Des- 
pite what  Lowry  had  said  of  the  man,  Phil's  im- 
agination painted  him  with  lurid,  horrible  colours. 
What  had  been  contempt  became  hatred,  a  hatred 
not  unmixed  with  fear,  and  a  sullen  resentment 
grew  daily  until  it  obsessed  him. 

These  things  drove  out  all  thought  of  the  wee- 
teego,  all  recollections  of  the  footprints  in  the  mud 
that  first  week  in  spite  of  Sandy's  morose  fancies. 
For  a  time  Phil  had  cultivated  Sandy.  To  him 
there  had  been  no  distinction  between  master  and 
servant,  between  the  white  race  and  a  mixture  of 
two  races.  Out  there  at  Fort  Dease,  alone  to- 
gether, facing  an  interminable  winter  with  no 
other  companionship,  why  should  a  little  matter  of 
colour  or  birth  be  a  barrier? 

Then,  too,  Phil  had  always  been  interested  in 
Indians  and  in  their  languages,  superstitions,  and 
psychology.  In  more  than  one  lonely  post  he  had 
found  native  and  half-breed  employees  fertile 
sources  of  amusement  and  information.  He 
rattled  off  Cree  and  Ojibwa  and  Chippewayan  and 
Beaver  and  was  the  proud  possessor  of  one  of 
those  priceless  Bishop  Baraga  Ojibwa  dictionaries. 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  FORT  DEASE     67 

Then,  too,  it  is  through  his  Indian  servants  that 
a  post-manager  keeps  informed  as  to  the  state  of 
affairs  in  his  domain.  Indians  talk  among  them- 
selves as  they  will  not  talk  to  white  people,  even  to 
representatives  of  that  Company  which  they  call 
in  their  own  language,  "to  whom  we  owe  thanks.'* 
And  Indians  are  as  social  as  white  people.  They 
love  to  gossip,  to  talk  scandal,  to  hash  over  the 
latest  sensation.  Gradually  this  talk  creeps  back 
to  the  post-manager  and  he  knows,  if  he  is  wise  and 
patient  and  diplomatic,  everything  that  is  going 
on  in  the  territory  for  which  he  is  responsible. 

And  so  in  the  first  weeks  Phil  spent  long  hours 
talking  to  Sandy.  He  learned  the  characteristics 
of  every  hunter  who  traded  at  Fort  Dease.  He 
learned  the  customs  and  ways  of  the  post,  of  the 
people  who  made  it  their  headquarters.  He 
gathered  and  stowed  away  innumerable  bits  of 
scandal  and  practical  jokes,  of  prowess  on  the  part 
of  this  hunter  and  laziness  on  the  part  of  another. 

He  learned  how  Henry  Chapies  had  caught  two 
black  foxes  on  the  same  day  and  had  celebrated 
by  refusing  to  set  another  trap  all  winter.  He 
learned  that  Job  Mecham  was  supposed  to  have 
fits  and  spend  an  entire  winter  moping  in  his 
camp,  while  the  next  year  he  would  go  out  and 
liquidate  two  seasons'  debt  with  a  phenomenal 
catch  of  fur. 

He  learned  how,  two  winters  before,  Solomon 
Moses  and  his  entire  family  had  starved  to  death 
through  the  inability  of  the  Fort  Dease  manager 


68  PENITENTIARY  POST 

and  Sandy  to  get  relief  to  them  in  time.  Word 
had  been  brought  in  and,  as  the  Company  always 
does,  help  had  been  dispatched  as  quickly  as 
possible. 

Sandy  went  into  a  long  description  of  that  trip, 
of  how  he  was  caught  in  the  worst  storm  he  had 
ever  known,  of  how  he  had  become  lost  in  trying 
to  make  a  short  cut  between  Cut-Bank  and 
Berens  rivers,  and  of  how  he  had  arrived  too  late 
and  had  found  the  family  lying  dead  in  the  camp, 
with  the  exception  of  Solomon  Moses  himself,  who 
had  probably  gone  off  in  search  of  help  and  had 
died  on  the  way. 

After  several  weeks  Sandy  finally  loosened 
enough  to  give  the  information  that  the  Indians 
would  never  return  to  Fort  Dease  to  dispose  of 
their  winter's  hunt. 

"You're  crazy,"  Phil  exclaimed. 

"You  wait  and  see.'* 

"But  why  shouldn't  they  come  back?" 

"The  weeteego." 

"The  weeteego  won't  keep  them  away  from  here 
in  the  spring." 

"Way  up  the  Bay  there  a  new  post,  a  Free- 
trading  company.  No  weeteego  there.  In  the 
spring  all  the  Indians  cross  over  and  go  down  the 
White  Wolf  River  to  that  post  and  sell  their  fur. 
They  'fraid  to  come  back  here." 

"But  why  did  they  get  their  debt  here  this  fall 
if  they  are  afraid  of  the  weeteego  ? " 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  FORT  DEASE      69 

"They  have  to  have  powder  and  everything 
and  in  the  summer  they  not  so  afraid  of  the  wee- 
teego  because  they  had  not  heard  much  about  it 
and  it  not  come  here  before  when  the  Indians  are 
here." 

"How  do  you  know  they'll  take  their  fur  down 
the  Bay?" 

"They  all  talk  about  it  while  they  wait  for  you 
to  come." 

In  spite  of  the  earnestness  of  the  half-breed, 
Phil  did  not  have  much  faith  in  Sandy's  story.  He 
had  not  seen  evidences  of  unusual  unrest  among 
the  Indians.  And  these  Indians  had  never  known 
a  Freetrader,  had  never  dealt  with  any  one  except 
the  Hudson's  Bay  Company.  The  story  was 
preposterous. 

When  Phil  believed  he  had  soaked  in  all  the 
gossip  of  the  district  he  failed  to  find  Sandy  par- 
ticularly entertaining.  The  half-breed  was  too 
prone  to  wander  into  the  realms  of  superstition, 
altogether  too  fond  of  telling  of  the  weeteego  that 
had  been  visiting  Fort  Dease  and  that  had  driven 
the  former  manager  mad. 

As  at  the  beginning,  Phil  did  not  attach  any 
importance  to  this  story.  He  had  disposed  of  the 
strange  footprints  in  the  mud  with  the  explanation 
that  an  Indian  had  returned  for  something  he  had 
forgotten.  It  was  only  the  morning  before  that 
the  last  of  them  had  gone. 

"I  know,"  Sandy  had  concluded  his  tale  one 
night,  "white  men  never  believe  in  weeteego. 


70  PENITENTIARY  POST 

But  the  manager  who  was  here  last  year,  he 
believe.  He  see  the  weeteego,  not  once  but  many 
time.  He  know  this  weeteego  come  to  Fort 
Dease.  The  weeteego  make  him  mad,  like  a 
loon." 

And  so  Phil  had  come  to  abandon  Sandy  to  his 
pipe  and  his  kitchen  and  his  fear  of  the  weeteego. 
He  had  retired  to  the  front  of  the  dwelling  house, 
to  his  broodings  and  his  fears  and  his  doubts,  and 
the  beginning  of  winter  found  him  mooning  alone 
in  the  living  room  while  Sandy  smoked  his  pipe 
and  mooned  over  weeteegos  in  the  kitchen. 

It  was  one  morning  in  early  November,  when  the 
bogs  had  frozen  over  and  the  first  big  snow  was 
threatening,  that  Sandy  violated  a  precedent  and 
entered  the  living  room  one  morning. 

"That  keg  of  gunpowder  in  the  cache,  she 
gone!"  he  exclaimed,  excitedly. 

"What  did  you  do  with  it?"  asked  Phil,  dis- 
interestedly. 

"Me  never  go  near  that  cache." 

"But  there  is  no  one  else  to  go  near  it." 

"It  the  weeteego." 

"Weeteego  nonsense!  Weeteegos  don't  steal 
gunpowder." 

"Come  and  you  see." 

Phil  followed  Sandy  out  to  the  corner  of  the 
enclosure  where  the  cache  had  been  built.  Several 
yards  away  he  saw  that  one  side  had  been  broken 
into  and  he  hurried  forward.  The  gunpowder 
was  gone. 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  FORT  DEASE     71 

Phil  stood  up  after  a  quick  examination  and 
looked  at  Sandy. 

"When  did  this  happen?"  he  asked. 

"It  all  here  last  night.  Me  feed  the  dogs  and 
see  the  cache." 

"  You  haven't  seen  any  more  of  those  barefoot 
tracks?" 

Sandy  pointed  to  the  frozen  clay  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"Me  hear  him  again  last  night,"  he  said.  "He 
howl  like  a  wolf  off  there,"  and  he  pointed  toward 
the  marsh  in  the  south. 

Phil's  investigations  of  Indian  superstitions 
had  led  to  a  discovery,  not  original  with  him,  that 
the  legend  of,  or  belief  in,  the  loup-garou,  or  were- 
wolf, was  common  among  some  Indians,  as  it 
had  been  among  many  primitive  people.  He 
knew  that  the  Eskimo  of  Alaska  believes  that  the 
killer  whale,  "the  wolf  of  the  sea,"  has  the  ability 
to  change  at  will  into  the  wolf,  and  vice  versa. 

But  as  he  went  back  to  the  house,  scoffing, 
he  realized  that,  despite  anything  he  might  be- 
lieve, the  gunpowder  was  gone. 

"Me  put  another  keg  there?"  Sandy  asked. 

"No,"  Phil  answered  gruffly.  "We'll  keep  the 
rest  in  the  store." 

From  that  time  on  the  weeteego  began  to  take 
its  place  in  Phil's  thoughts  with  Joyce  and  Wick- 
son.  Viewed  now  at  a  distance,  the  tracks  of 
naked  feet  in  the  mud  assumed  a  sinister  signi- 
ficance. And  the  gunpowder  was  gone.  No  liv- 


72  PENITENTIARY  POST 

ing  person  was  known  to  be  within  one  hundred 
miles  of  Fort  Dease. 

The  week  after  the  disappearance  of  the  gun- 
powder the  first  big  storm  of  the  winter  struck  the 
coast.  For  a  day  it  raged  without  a  lull.  When 
night  came  nothing  was  to  be  seen  from  the  dwel- 
ing  house  windows  beyond  the  picket  fence. 
The  great,  barren  waste  was  a  mass  of  flying  snow, 
and  the  first  numbing  cold  had  come.  The  little 
house  shook  as  it  received  the  full  force  of  the  wind 
and  the  eaves  formed  great  whistles  which  shrieked 
eerily  with  each  rising  blast. 

The  storm  had  brought  with  it  excessive  brood- 
ing and  a  new  despondency,  and  Phil  went  to  bed 
early,  tired  out  by  the  very  wretchedness  and 
suspense  and  grawing  uncertainty  of  his  existence. 
He  would  not  have  admitted  it,  he  probably  did 
not  realize  it,  but  the  land,  that  new,  raw,  barren 
waste,  had  gripped  him.  Aided  by  the  forces  that 
attacked  from  within,  it  had  at  last  penetrated  the 
callousness  built  up  by  a  dozen  years  in  the  wilder- 
ness. 

Phil  did  not  know  when  he  wakened  or  what  had 
caused  him  to  be  transferred  so  suddenly  from  a 
dreamless  sleep  to  a  complete,  alert  consciousness. 
The  sounds  of  the  storm  were  even  louder,  but  in 
the  room  there  was  absolute  quiet.  It  was  dark, 
too,  so  dark  that  even  the  window  could  hardly 
be  distinguished. 

For  a  moment  Phil  strained  his  eyes,  so  certain 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  FORT  DEASE      73 

had  he  been  that  something  had  wakened  him. 
When  he  knew  that  he  could  not  see  he  listened 
intently,  as  if  to  hear  something  beneath  the  roar 
of  the  storm. 

But  there  was  nothing  except  perfect  stillness 
in  the  room.  Phil  relaxed  at  last,  concluding  that 
an  unusual  blast  of  wind  had  shaken  the  house  and 
disturbed  him.  He  thought  to  drop  off  to  sleep, 
but  found  his  nerves  peculiarly  tense.  He  found, 
too,  that  he  was  unconsciously  straining  his  ears. 

A  particularly  fierce  gust  struck  the  house  but 
even  in  the  rattle  and  roar  there  came  to  him  under 
it  all  a  sound  that  could  have  been  made  by  only 
one  thing.  The  latch  of  the  door  was  being  lifted. 
The  shrieking  of  the  wind  and  the  rattling  of  loose 
boards  ceased  and  in  the  momentary  stillness  Phil 
strained  to  catch  a  repetition  of  the  sound.  There 
was  none. 

Again  the  wind  struck  the  house,  and  again  Phil 
caught  the  sound  of  a  lifting  latch.  This  time 
there  mingled  with  it  a  tiny  squeak  as  the  door 
swung  on  the  hinges. 

"Sandy!"  Phil  cried  as  he  sprang  from  bed. 
"What  are  you  doing  there?" 

He  ran  across  the  room  and  found  the  door  open 
a  couple  of  inches.  As  he  grasped  the  latch  he 
heard  the  front  door  open,  and  when  he  had  swung 
back  the  door  of  his  own  room  the  storm  struck 
him,  blinding  and  driving  him  back  with  the  sting 
of  the  snow  and  the  searing  cold. 

"Sandy!"  he  called  again,  now  pressing  against 


74  PENITENTIARY  POST 

the  wind  and  looking  out.  He  thought  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  figure  on  the  veranda  but  if  he  did 
it  faded  instantly  into  the  darkness  and  the  storm. 

"Sandy!" 

There  was  no  answer  and  he  closed  the  outer 
door  and  went  into  his  room.  Shivering,  trembling 
so  that  he  could  hardly  hold  the  chimney  of  the 
lamp,  for  the  cold  had  driven  through,  he  finally 
struck  a  light.  Then,  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  he 
went  to  the  kitchen. 

As  he  entered  the  hall  the  lamp  showed  at  once 
that  the  kitchen  door  was  open.  He  had  never 
known  the  half-breed  to  leave  it  so. 

"Sandy!"  he  called  as  he  strode  down  the  hall. 

There  was  no  answer,  but  as  the  lamp  lighted  up 
the  kitchen  Phil  saw  his  servant's  horror-distorted 
face  peering  out  from  under  the  blankets  on  his 
bunk. 

"What  are  you  doing  up  at  this  time  of  night, 
opening  my  door  and  the  front  door?"  Phil  de- 
manded, angrily. 

The  man  did  not  answer. 

"Wasn't  that  you?"  Phil  asked  as  a  twinge  of 
the  other's  terror  touched  him. 

Still  Sandy  seemed  incapable  of  speech,  and  Phil 
crossed  over  to  his  bunk. 

"Haven't  you  been  out  of  bed?" 

Sandy  shook  his  head. 

"Who  was  that  at  my  door,  if  it  wasn't  you?" 

"The  weeteego,"  whispered  the  half-breed. 

"Weeteego!" 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  FORT  DEASE     75 

"You  no  see  him?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"Me  see  him.  Here,  in  the  kitchen.  He  open 
that  door.  Me  see  him  by  the  window.  He  hit 
that  bench  with  his  foot.  Then  he  go  back 
through  the  hall.  Me  never  see  him  before." 

Phil  did  not  comment.  Slowly  he  turned  and 
set  the  lamp  on  the  table.  There  had  been  the 
quick  impulse  to  scoff,  but  somehow  the  words 
would  not  come.  He  knew  that  Sandy  had  not 
been  out  of  bed.  He  was  not  sure  that  he  had  only 
imagined  a  figure  just  outside  the  front  door,  one 
that  had  faded  into  the  storm  as  a  picture  fades 
from  a  screen  at  a  moving  picture  show. 

He  turned  uncertainly  and  looked  at  the 
frightened  face  of  the  half-breed.  Then  he  picked 
up  his  lamp  and  without  another  word  returned 
to  his  bedroom. 

Cursing  himself  for  permitting  Indian  supersti- 
tion and  a  half-breed's  terror  to  upset  him,  and 
at_the  same  time  glancing  furtively  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  door  of  his  room,  Phil  crawled  in 
between  the  big  four-point  blankets.  For  a  time 
he  found  himself  listening  intently  every  time  the 
wind  howled.  It  had  been  only  then  that  he  had 
heard  the  noise  of  the  lifted  latch.  But  after  a 
half-hour  he  had  argued  himself  into  a  firm  belief 
that  both  he  and  Sandy  had  been  the  victims  of  a 
caprice,  or  series  of  caprices,  of  the  storm. 

The  fright,  for  it  had  been  that,  served  to  clear 
Phil's  brain.  It  raised  it  above  the  muddy, 


76  PENITENTIARY  POST 

murky,  befogging  level  to  which  it  had  been  sink- 
ing. Brooding,  inactivity,  growing  fears  and 
anxieties  for  Joyce,  the  depressing  effects  of 
solitude  and  of  the  land  in  which  he  lived,  all  had 
combined  to  rob  him  of  mental  vigour.  Now  he 
was  alert,  sane  again,  and  for  the  first  time  in  weeks 
his  old  humorous  attitude  toward  life  returned. 
With  a  frank  grin  for  his  terror  of  a  half-hour  be- 
fore, he  turned  over  and  went  to  sleep. 

Daylight  had  come  when  Phil  wakened  again, 
a  fact  that  brought  him  up  in  bed  with  a  jerk. 
He  had  been  breakfasting  by  lamplight  for  a 
month.  He  listened  for  sounds  in  the  kitchen  but 
there  were  none.  The  storm  still  tore  across  the 
bogs  and  the  sea,  still  whistled  and  rattled  about 
the  dwelling  house.  The  house  was  very  cold. 
Sandy  always  had  a  fire  roaring  in  the  living 
room  that  his  master  might  have  a  warm  place  in 
which  to  dress.  Phil  crossed  the  hall,  but  the 
stove  was  cold  and  silent. 

"Sandy!"  he  called  as  he  started  through  the 
dining  room  to  the  kitchen.  "Sandy,  where  are 
you?" 

There  was  no  answer  and  he  threw  open  the 
kitchen  door  to  find  that  room  as  still  and  as  cold 
as  the  others.  There  was  no  fire  in  the  stove,  and 
Sandy's  bed  was  empty.  Even  the  blankets  were 
gone. 

The  cold  decided  Phil's  next  move  as  he  stood 
there  perplexed.  He  ran  back  through  the  hall 
to  his  own  room  to  get  his  clothes.  Ten  minutes 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  FORT  DEASE  77 

later  he  was  bundled  in  his  skins  and  furs  and  work- 
ing at  the  stove  with  numbed  fingers.  When  the 
fire  was  burning  well  in  the  living  room  and  he  had 
warmed  himself,  he  went  to  the  kitchen  and  threw 
open  the  outer  door. 

A  great  mass  of  snow  was  banked  up  against  it, 
packed  so  tightly  by  the  wind  that  it  remained 
there,  a  solid,  finely  chiselled  barrier  showing  each 
little  crevice  in  the  boards  against  which  it  had 
been  driven. 

Phil  closed  the  door  against  the  wind  and  ran 
through  the  hall  to  the  front  door.  It  was  bar- 
ricaded in  the  same  way.  Sandy  had  gone,  and  he 
had  gone  in  the  night,  so  long  ago  that  the  storm 
had  wiped  out  all  traces  of  where  he  had  passed 
through  the  door. 

Returning  to  the  kitchen,  Phil  again  opened  the 
door  and  stepped  out  into  the  big  drift.  He 
fought  his  way  across  to  the  trading  shop,  to  the 
warehouse  and  back  to  the  dog  yard.  The  dogs 
were  gone. 

He  went  out  through  the  gate  in  the  picket  fence 
to  the  Indian  house.  The  door  was  closed,  and  the 
snow  was  banked  high  on  the  threshold.  But 
when  Phil  opened  it  and  looked  in  he  saw  that  it 
had  been  opened  in  the  night  and  snow  tracked 
in,  leaving  great,  unshapely  prints  on  the  floor. 

He  hurried  back  through  the  drifts  to  the  front 
gate  in  the  fence  and  then  across  to  the  side  gate. 
In  no  place  was  there  a  sign  of  any  one  having 
gone  out.  The  storm  had  attended  to  that. 


78  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Then  he  returned  to  the  kitchen  door  and  saw  that 
his  own  tracks  had  been  nearly  filled. 

Sandy,  with  the  only  dog  team,  had  gone,  and 
in  the  storm  there  was  no  way  to  follow  him. 
Phil  was  alone  at  Fort  Dease  at  the  beginning  of 
winter. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   WEETEEGO 

THE  weeteego — weeteego  in  Cree,  windigo  in 
Ojibwa — is  not  exactly  a  superstition  among 
woods  Indians.   There  have  been  weeteegos, 
and  windigos,  and  the  few  actual  instances  have 
served  to  establish  a  firm  belief  in  them. 

The  weeteego  is  not  from  the  spirit  world.  He 
is  a  real,  live  Indian,  either  man  or  woman,  who 
has  obtained  supernatural  powers  through  some 
means  or  other,  and  who  is  to  be  greatly  feared  as 
no  human  force  can  prevail  against  him. 

Further,  and  more  gruesomely,  the  weeteego, 
or  windigo,  is  a  cannibal,  an  ogre  of  the  wilderness 
that  eats  men,  women,  and  children.  This  is  its 
most  fear-inspiring  trait,  but,  through  its  super- 
natural powers,  it  is  capable  of  any  diabolical  act. 
Real,  live  weeteegos,  of  course,  have  been 
mentally  deranged  Indians  who  have  killed  and 
eaten  members  of  their  own  families  or  other  In- 
dians. Insanity  is  often  misconstrued  by  woods 
Indians  as  an  evidence  of  the  possession  of  evil 
spirits,  and  the  common  belief  in  the  power  of  such 
spirits,  coupled  with  the  few  real  instances  of  wee- 
teegoism,  has  resulted  in  more  than  one  panic- 
disrupted  camp. 

79 


8o  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Philip  Boynton  knew  all  of  this.  He  had  heard 
much  of  it  and  one  actual  instance  had  come 
under  his  observation.  He  knew  the  terror  of  the 
Indians  when  they  believe  a  weeteego  is  near  their 
camp,  and  he  understood  perfectly  why  Sandy  had 
gone. 

Phil  felt  only  exasperation.  There  was  no  fear, 
no  dread  of  what  he  faced.  The  shock  of  finding 
himself  alone  cleared  his  mind  of  the  bloated,  dis- 
torted, inflamed  thoughts  and  he  was  cool,  thor- 
oughly himself  again.  He  cursed  because  he 
faced  a  winter  of  his  own  cooking.  He  laughed  at 
the  thought  of  himself,  a  much-served  servant  of 
the  great  Company,  cutting  his  own  firewood. 
Half  grinning,  half  frowning,  he  went  into  the 
kitchen  to  prepare  his  breakfast. 

The  snow  ceased  falling  at  noon  and  the  sky 
cleared.  Phil  went  out  again  to  try  to  determine 
what  Sandy  had  done.  He  found  that  the  half- 
breed  had  taken  the  toboggan,  the  dogs,  his  snow- 
shoes,  his  blankets  and  rabbit-skin  robe,  four 
sacks  of  fish  for  the  team  and  practically  all  the 
food  in  the  kitchen — enough  to  last  him  two  weeks. 

There  was  nothing  to  indicate  which  way  he  had 
gone.  It  might  have  been  northwest  to  Fort 
Berens.  It  might  have  been  south  to  some 
hunter's  camp  across  the  bogs.  It  might  have 
been  up  the  river  to  Lowry's  nearest  outpost. 
It  might  have  been  up  the  coast  to  the  Free- 
trader of  whom  he  had  told. 

Of  all  these  places,  Fort  Berens  was  the  nearest, 


THE  WEETEEGO  81 

nearly  two  hundred  miles  down  the  shore  of  the 
Bay,  a  difficult,  dangerous  trip,  with  no  fuel,  no 
protection  from  storms.  Southwest  to  the  Free- 
trader's it  was  the  same.  The  chances  were  he  had 
gone  west  toward  the  timber  country  and  the  near- 
est outpost  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company. 

Phil  did  not  find  anything  hopeful  in  this.  He 
knew  that  by  the  time  Sandy  had  broken  a  trail 
for  two  hundred  miles  he  would  have  the  super- 
stitious fear  pretty  well  worked  out  of  his  system 
and,  because  of  his  white  blood,  would  be  ashamed 
to  admit  the  reason  for  his  flight  from  Fort  Dease. 
He  might  even  avoid  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company 
altogether. 

The  more  he  thought  of  it  the  more  he  was  con- 
vinced that  the  last  would  be  the  case.  On  that 
hypothesis  he  reasoned  out  his  own  predicament. 
If  Sandy  failed  to  tell  that  he  was  alone  at  Fort 
Dease  the  fact  would  not  be  known  all  winter. 
He  even  stopped  to  wonder  if  Wickson  would 
act  if  he  did  learn  of  it.  The  district  manager 
might  ignore  the  fact,  leave  him  to  a  year  of  soli- 
tude. It  would  be  playing  his  game,  although  the 
Company's  policy  never  wittingly  permitted  such 
a  thing. 

There  would  be  an  opportunity  to  send  out  a 
message  in  January.  At  most  posts  all  the 
hunters  gather  on  New  Year's  Day.  It  is  an 
annual  affair,  the  big  occasion  of  the  year.  They 
bring  in  the  first  of  the  winter's  fur,  get  new 
supplies,  and,  best  of  all,  are  guests  of  the  Com- 


82  PENITENTIARY  POST 

pany,  eat  the  Company's  food  and  shake  the  hand 
of  the  Company's  representative.  It  is  the  bright 
spot  in  the  Indian's  winter. 

But  Fort  Dease  was  different.  Down  there  on 
the  shore  of  the  Bay,  separated  from  the  hunting 
grounds  by  one  hundred  miles  of  barren  waste,  it 
was  too  far  for  all  its  hunters  to  come  in  midwinter. 
Sandy  had  told  Phil  that  in  past  years  only  a  dozen 
were  near  enough,  and  cared  enough,  to  make  the 
journey.  Phil  remembered,  too,  what  Sandy  had 
said  about  the  hunters  not  coming  back  to  Fort 
Dease  because  of  the  weeteego,  but  he  gave  the 
report  no  consideration.  Of  course  the  Indians 
would  come,  and  in  six  weeks  he  would  have  one 
of  them  started  for  Lowry's  post  with  a  message. 
In  three  months  he  would  have  a  servant,  a  dog- 
team,  and  perhaps  some  mail. 

So,  in  excellent  spirits,  Phil  began  his  long 
solitude.  It  was  even  better,  he  thought,  than  to 
have  Sandy  mooning  in  the  kitchen  over  weeteegos, 
and,  besides,  Sandy's  bannock  was  far  below 
standard. 

As  for  the  weeteego,  Phil  ignored  it.  He 
convinced  himself  that  the  wind  had  played  a 
prank,  and  that  Sandy,  because  the  manager  had 
been  disturbed,  had  imagined  all  that  was  neces- 
sary to  reach  the  climax  of  superstitious  terror. 

For  a  week  things  went  nicely.  The  flight  of  his 
servant  seemed  to  have  lifted  Phil  above  the  des- 
pondency caused  by  the  dreary  life  at  Fort  Dease 
and  by  his  brooding  over  Joyce  and  Wickson.  He 


THE  WEETEEGO  83 

found  enough  to  keep  him  busy  most  of  the  day 
and  he  had  brought  in  a  large  supply  of  books  from 
the  library  at  Savant  House.  He  thought  much 
of  Joyce,  but  Wickson  occupied  less  of  his  attention 
and  his  pessimism  was  gone. 

Then,  ten  days  after  Sandy  left,  and  as  Phil 
sat  reading  one  night,  he  was  startled  from  his 
chair  by  a  howl  from  out  on  the  bog.  His  book 
slid  to  the  floor  and  he  half  rose  from  his  chair. 

It  was  seldom  that  wolves  came  near  Fort  Dease. 
There  was  nothing  for  them  to  live  on.  But, 
though  this  fact  flashed  instantly  into  Phil's  mind, 
it  was  something  else  that  kept  him  in  a  tense  atti- 
tude of  perplexity  and  uneasiness.  He  had  heard 
thousands  of  wolves  howl,  but  he  had  never  heard 
one  exactly  like  that.  As  he  tried  to  reproduce 
the  sound  in  his  mind  he  became  more  certain 
that  it  could  not  have  been  a  wolf. 

But  he  knew  of  nothing  else  it  could  have  been. 
There  was  not  a  person  within  one  hundred  miles 
of  him.  Alone,  he  was  out  on  the  edge  of  as 
desolate  a  land  as  the  world  knew.  On  one  side 
was  the  inland  sea,  an  impossible  thoroughfare. 
On  the  other  was  a  storm-swept,  shelterless 
waste,  as  barren  of  life  as  the  moon. 

The  sound  was  not  repeated  and  slowly  Phil 
relaxed  and  sank  back  into  the  comfortable  depths 
of  his  chair.  He  picked  up  his  book  again,  listened 
for  a  moment  to  the  warm  sound  of  the  fire  in  the 
stove  beside  him,  glanced  about  the  cozy  room,  and 
then,  with  a  sheepish  grin,  again  began  to  read. 


«4  PENITENTIARY  POST 

The  next  day  another  snow-storm  came  to  rage 
for  three  days.  There  was  no  need  to  go  out,  for 
he  had  brought  in  a  large  reserve  supply  of  wood, 
and  Phil  sat  beside  the  stove  in  the  living  room 
reading.  The  days  were  very  short,  and,  in  the 
storm,  very  dark,  and  an  interesting  book  upset 
Phil's  schedule.  He  had  not  risen  until  late 
the  morning  of  the  second  day  of  the  storm, 
and  his  midday  meal  was  forgotten  until  late  in 
the  afternoon.  Supper  came  at  ten  o'clock  that 
night,  and  it  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  dishes 
were  washed.  Phil  returned  to  the  book,  the  light, 
and  the  stove  in  the  living  room. 

It  was  a  work  on  ethnology  and,  because  it  was 
about  the  Cree  Indians,  the  people  he  knew  best, 
it  was  more  absorbing  than  fiction.  Consequent- 
ly, Phil  was  unconscious  of  a  draught  of  cold  air 
on  the  floor  until  his  legs  were  chilled  to  the  knees. 

But,  somehow,  as  he  glanced  absently  at  the 
stove,  he  felt  that  something  other  than  the 
cold  had  drawn  his  attention  from  the  book.  He 
had  that  indefinable  feeling  that  another  person 
was  near  him. 

Suddenly  aroused,  he  looked  through  the  double 
door  into  the  dining  room.  The  door  leading  on 
into  the  kitchen  was  closed,  but  as  Phil  looked  he 
saw  the  latch  slowly  lowered  into  its  slot. 

There  was  no  sound.  Fascinated,  he  did  not 
take  his  eyes  from  the  latch  of  the  dining-room 
door.  Then  he  became  conscious  of  the  cold,  of 
his  numbed  feet. 


THE  WEETEEGO  85 

It  aroused  him  from  the  trance  into  which  the 
weird  movement  of  the  latch  had  plunged  him. 
Perplexed,  he  glanced  again  at  the  dining-room 
door.  For  the  first  time  apprehension  came. 
But  only  for  a  moment.  He  picked  up  the  lamp 
and  went  to  the  door  from  the  dining  room  into  the 
kitchen  and  opened  it. 

Instantly  a  swirl  of  wind  extinguished  the  lamp 
and  he  felt  the  biting  snow  particles  stinging  his 
face.  In  the  first  stages  of  panic  he  slammed  the 
door  against  the  wind  and  retreated  to  the  living 
room,  where  he  quickly  scratched  a  match  and 
touched  it  to  the  lamp-wick. 

The  light  in  the  familiar  room  ended  his  panic. 

He  knew  at  once  that  the  wind  had  blown  open 
the  outside  kitchen  door  and  that  he  had  imagined 
the  movement  of  the  latch.  He  went  out  arid 
closed  and  bolted  the  door. 

Phil  returned  to  the  living  room.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  was  again  absorbed  in  his  reading,  so 
completely  so  that  the  first  notes  of  the  long,  weird 
howl  that  came  from  the  marshes  failed  to  reach 
him.  The  next  instant  he  was  sitting  erectly  in 
his  chair,  listening  with  strained  ears,  while  a 
peculiar  creeping  sensation  spread  from  his  neck  to 
the  top  of  his  head. 

The  howl  ended  and  then  began  again.  There 
was  something  demoniacal  about  it.  It  had  a 
baffled,  angry  note,  and  it  was  not  like  any  sound, 
human  or  animal,  that  Phil  had  ever  heard  before. 

He  did  not  return  to  his  book.     For  a  long  time 


86  PENITENTIARY  POST 

he  sat  in  his  chair  listening  for  a  repetition  of  the 
sound.  None  came,  but  the  tense  expectancy 
served  only  to  increase  the  feeling  of  uneasiness. 
Repeatedly  Phil  told  himself  that  he  was  a  fool, 
that  the  solitude  was  giving  him  a  case  of  nerves. 
He  even  tried  to  convince  himself  that  he  had 
not  heard  anything,  but  the  memory  of  that  un- 
earthly howl  was  too  vivid. 

At  last  he  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  after 
three  o'clock.  He  built  up  the  fire  and  went  to 
bed. 

It  was  noon  when  he  wakened.  As  he  opened 
his  eyes  there  flashed  upon  him  a  remembrance  of 
the  events  of  the  night  before.  Chuckling  at  him- 
self for  his  unusual  case  of  nerves  he  arose  and 
dressed.  He  resolved  that  day  to  mend  the  latch 
so  that  there  might  not  be  a  recurrence  of  the 
wind-opened  door.  In  a  quick  reaction  from  his 
uneasiness  of  the  night  before  he  began  to  hum  as 
he  went  toward  the  kitchen.  The  song  came  to  an 
abrupt  end  as  he  halted  at  the  door. 

Leading  across  the  room  from  where  he  stood 
were  two  lines  of  tracks.  Broad,  shapeless  impres- 
sions in  the  snow  which  had  blown  in  while  the 
door  had  stood  open,  they  were  irrefutable  evi- 
dence that  he  had  seen  the  latch  slowly  lowered  in 
the  slot,  that  he  had  had  an  unknown  visitor. 

In  a  vain  effort  to  explain  away  this  mystery 
Phil  argued  to  himself  that  they  must  be  his  prints 
made  when  he  went  to  the  door  to  close  it.  But 
the  fallacy  of  such  an  explanation  was  immediately 


THE  WEETEEGO  87 

apparent  in  the  sight  of  his  own  smaller,  more 
slender  moccasin  impressions  leading  across  the 
room  and  back  again.  In  some  places  his  own 
covered  the  tracks  of  the  unknown,  showing  that 
his  visitor  had  come  and  gone  before  he  had  closed 
the  door  in  the  night. 

Phil  hurried  across  the  room  and  opened  the 
door,  only  to  find  a  level,  unbroken  drift  piled 
high  against  it.  Outside  there  was  not  a  track  of 
anything;  could  not  be  with  the  storm  still  raging. 

He  swept  the  snow  from  the  kitchen  and  started 
a  fire.  After  he  had  eaten  breakfast  he  went  out- 
side and  searched  the  entire  place  for  signs  of  some- 
one having  been  there  in  the  night.  But  the  wind 
and  the  thickly  falling  snow  had  covered  every- 
thing. 

That  night  the  manager  of  Fort  Dease  feared  the 
unknown  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  He  sat 
beside  the  stove  with  a  book  in  his  hands,  but  he 
did  not  read.  Unwillingly,  he  found  himself  re- 
viewing all  that  he  had  heard  and  seen  since  com- 
ing to  Fort  Dease.  He  remembered  what  Joyce 
had  told  him  of  his  predecessor,  of  how  the  man 
had  gone  out  a  mumbling  imbecile  after  a  year  on 
the  marshes.  He  recalled  the  footprints  in  the 
mud,  the  night  he  had  heard  his  bedroom  door 
opened,  the  howls  from  out  on  the  bogs.  He  re- 
membered all  the  stories  Sandy  had  told  him, 
the  snowy  footprints  he  had  found  in  the  Indian 
house,  those  he  had  seen  only  that  noon  in  the  snow 


88  PENITENTIARY  POST 

on  the  kitchen  floor.  And,  most  vividly  of  all,  he 
remembered  the  latch  of  the  door  slowly  dropping 
back  into  its  slot. 

Phil  did  not  go  to  bed  until  nearly  morning.  He 
read  fitfully  after  midnight,  but  always  he  stopped 
to  listen  as  if  expecting  to  hear  that  dreary  howl 
from  out  in  the  storm. 

The  next  day  the  sky  had  cleared  and  the 
wind  had  gone  down.  Phil  had  breakfast 
eaten  before  noon  and  immediately  set  out 
to  examine  every  bit  of  ground  about  the  post. 
The  snow  had  drifted  high  against  the  buildings 
on  the  lee  sides,  while  in  some  of  the  more  exposed 
places  the  ground  was  nearly  bare.  He  looked 
carefully  everywhere,  but  not  a  sign  of  any  sort 
was  to  be  seen. 

Returning  from  the  Indian  house  he  stubbed 
his  toe  on  something  hard  in  a  place  where  the 
ground  had  been  swept  almost  clean.  The  object 
was  kicked  loose  and  ahead  of  him,  but  Phil  would 
have  passed  it  had  he  not  caught  a  glimpse  of 
feathers  thrust  out  from  the  snow-covered  ball. 
He  stooped  and  picked  it  up,  brushing  the  snow 
off  with  his  mittens,  and  found  a  half-eaten 
ptarmigan. 

It  was  not  the  fact  that  it  was  a  ptarmigan  that 
caused  Phil  to  look  at  it  in  wonder  and  then  in 
growing  horror.  It  was  a  realization  of  what  had 
befallen  the  bird.  It  had  not  been  cooked,  not 
even  dressed.  The  flesh  had  been  torn  from  it  in 
frozen  strips.  And  no  animal  had  done  it.  There 


THE  WEETEEGO  89 

were  no  small,  sharp,  awl-like  tooth-marks, 
but  wide,  flat,  dull  imprints  of  human  teeth.  In 
the  frozen  flesh  they  were  as  evident  as  though 
Phil  himself  had  seen  them  made. 

In  sudden  horror  he  dropped  the  bird  and 
hurried  back  to  the  dwelling  house.  As  he 
forced  his  way  through  the  deep  drifts  he  looked 
apprehensively  out  over  the  white  waste  about 
him.  As  far  as  he  could  see  there  was  only  un- 
broken, level,  white  land  and  unbroken,  level 
gray  sea. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Phil  was  afraid  of 
the  solitude.  The  view  from  the  fort  was  so 
utterly  dead  and  lifeless,  so  weighted  with  sinister 
possibilities,  so  suggestive  of  death  itself  in  fright- 
ful form,  that  it  reached  at  last  to  the  soul  of  the 
man  it  held  within  its  grasp. 

But  even  as  he  feared  it,  Phil  defied  it.  Out 
there  in  the  centre  of  that  waste,  with  no  human 
chance  of  escaping  from  it,  in  anger  because  of  his 
very  impotency  to  do  so,  he  shook  his  fist  at  the 
silent,  mocking,  shrouded  desolation  and  chal- 
lenged it  to  battle. 

The  land,  wise,  patient,  certain,  struck  greater 
terror  by  its  seeming  disregard  of  his  presence, 
and  he  hurried  into  the  house. 

From  that  moment  on  Phil  was  never  able  to 
get  away  from  the  idea  of  the  weeteego.  He 
tried  to  read  but  could  not.  He  found  himself 
listening  always  for  that  howl  from  the  marshes, 
for  sounds  of  lifted  latches,  for  footsteps  in  the 


90  PENITENTIARY  POST 

hall  or  in  the  kitchen.  For  a  time  he  tried  to 
argue  with  himself,  to  convince  himself  that  he  was 
a  fool,  and  in  the  week  that  followed  the  finding 
of  the  ptarmigan  nothing  happened  to  support  his 
terror. 

But  the  intangible  dread  persisted  until  the  next 
storm,  and  on  the  second  night  of  it  Phil  again 
heard  the  howl  from  the  marshes.  He  was  waiting 
for  it  then,  heard  the  first  shrill,  wailing  note,  and 
instantly  the  flesh  crept  upward  on  the  back  of  his 
neck. 

He  did  not  sleep  that  night,  and  when  he  finally 
went  to  bed  after  midnight,  the  third  night  of  the 
storm,  he  had  a  rifle  beside  him  on  the  covers  and 
a  small  electric  hand  lamp,  one  he  had  brought 
from  England,  beneath  his  pillow.  Sheer  weari- 
ness brought  quick  slumber. 

Phil  found  himself  wide  awake,  eyes  straining 
against  the  darkness,  ears  against  the  sound  of  the 
wind.  He  could  see  nothing,  hear  nothing,  yet  he 
was  certain  that  something  had  wrenched  him  back 
to  full  consciousness. 

And  then  came  a  sound,  a  tiny  squeak,  distin- 
guishable only  because  it  was  so  much  more  gentle 
than  the  noise  of  the  storm.  Softly  Phil's  hand 
slid  under  his  pillow  until  he  had  grasped  the  flash- 
light. There  was  another  tiny  squeak,  and  he 
levelled  the  lamp  at  the  door  and  pressed  the 
button. 

Sharply,  clearly,  distinctly,  if  only  for  a  fraction 
of  a  second,  there  was  outlined  a  great,  black, 


THE  WEETEEGO  91 

swollen  hand  gripping  the  door,  while  beneath  it, 
darting  quickly  out  of  sight,  was  another  hand 
clasping  a  long,  rusty  knife. 

It  had  been  like  a  picture  flashed  on  to  a  screen 
and  off  again.  In  the  centre  of  the  circle  of  light 
there  was  nothing  except  the  partly  opened  door. 
And  yet  the  hands  had  been  there. 

Phil  sprang  out  of  bed,  a  yell  bursting  from 
his  throat.  His  rifle  in  one  hand,  the  flash  in  the 
other,  he  ran  down  the  hall,  into  the  kitchen,  and 
against  the  fury  of  the  storm  as  it  struck  in  through 
the  open  door.  The  room  was  empty,  but  in  the 
snow  that  covered  the  floor  were  the  same  shape- 
less, blurred  tracks  that  had  been  there  before. 

As  Phil  stood  staring  at  the  footprints  there 
came  from  out  on  the  marsh  the  long,  wailing  howl, 
rising  above  the  noise  of  the  wind  and  then  ending 
as  if  cut  with  a  knife. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    BATTLE    IN   THE   DARK 

RATHER  than  inspiring  fresh  terror,  the 
misshapen  prints  in  the  snow,  though  they 
seemed  to  be  neither  human  nor  animal, 
induced  anger  and  utter  fearlessness.  The  hands 
which  he  had  seen  at  his  door,  great,  black,  hairy 
things,  did  not  bring  fear  of  some  inhuman  mon- 
ster. The  weird  howls  from  the  marshes  did  not 
instil  any  superstitious  dread  of  the  loup-garou. 

Phil  dressed,  started  a  fire,  swept  out  the  kit- 
chen, started  water  to  boil  for  tea,  and  sat  down 
in  his  living  room  to  think  over  the  situation. 
That  someone,  white  or  red,  insane  or  criminal, 
was  attempting  to  take  his  life  was  clear.  Simi- 
lar attempts  on  the  life  of  the  former  manager 
evidently  had  been  made,  so  Phil  personally  was 
not  the  object  of  attack.  Rather,  as  manager  for 
the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  his  life  was  sought. 

There  was  nothing  to  cause  him  to  believe  that 
the  unknown  had  a  confederate,  and,  until  the 
Indians  arrived  at  New  Year's,  there  was  no  means 
of  Phil  getting  help.  It  was  a  duel,  without  hope 
of  assistance  for  either. 

His  mind  cleared  by  his  anger,  Phil  quickly 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  only  one 

92 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK        93 

thing  for  him  to  do.  Whether  the  midnight 
haunter  of  Fort  Dease  were  red  or  white,  sane 
or  mad,  he  must  be  killed.  Where  there  is  no  law 
a  man  must  make  his  own,  and  Phil  accepted  that 
first  and  fundamental  code. 

He  did  not  have  a  revolver  and  there  was  only 
one  repeating  rifle.  Each  night  he  had  kept  it 
beside  his  chair  as  he  sat  reading  in  the  living  room. 
When  he  slept,  it  lay  on  his  bed  beside  him,  and 
the  flash-light  was  beneath  his  pillow.  The  front 
and  kitchen  doors  were  locked  and  the  windows 
fastened.  After  dark  each  night  the  dwelling 
house  became  a  fortress,  and  Phil  gradually 
changed  his  habits  of  living  so  that  he  slept  most 
of  the  day  and  was  up  the  greater  part  of  the 
night.  Sometimes  he  did  not  waken  until  the 
early  darkness  of  mid-afternoon  had  come,  and 
breakfast  and  supper  exchanged  places. 

But  the  days  and  nights  passed  without  a  return 
of  the  weeteego,  as  Phil  had  begun  to  refer  in  his 
thoughts  to  his  unknown  adversary.  The  intense 
cold  of  winter  had  come  and  as  he  looked  out 
across  the  lifeless  plain  he  wondered  that  any- 
thing could  exist.  The  damp  air  was  blown  in 
from  the  bay,  condensed  and  frozen,  so  that  every- 
thing was  enshrouded  in  a  haze.  Rather  than 
hiding  the  terrifying  vastness  and  desolation  of  the 
waste,  the  frost  smoke  only  accentuated  the  utter 
loneliness  of  the  land  by  veiling  it. 

Christmas  came  before  Phil  realized  it,  so  eager 
was  he  for  a  return  of  the  weeteego.  As  he 


94  PENITENTIARY  POST 

checked  off  his  calendar  he  realized  that  any  day 
the  hunters  might  come,  and  he  began  to  watch 
the  river  and  the  marshes  to  the  south.  But  the 
days  passed,  and  New  Year's  came  and  was  gone, 
and  no  Indians  appeared. 

It  was  the  third  of  January  before  Phil  would 
admit  what  it  meant.  The  weather  had  been  fine. 
There  was  no  reason  why  they  should  not  have 
come  in  to  sell  their  furs  and  to  replenish  their 
supplies.  When  he  arose  at  noon  of  January 
fourth  he  knew  that  Sandy  had  told  the  truth, 
that  the  hunters  would  not  return  to  Fort  Dease. 

It  was  the  first  time  the  inexorable  Northland 
ever  conquered  him,  that  he  had  ever  shuddered 
as  he  faced  the  battle  it  always  offers.  Alone  out 
there  on  the  edge  of  the  world,  unable  to  send 
for  help,  no  one  knowing  that  he  needed  help, 
threatened  constantly  by  a  haunting,  ghostly, 
demon-voiced  thing  with  black,  swollen,  hairy, 
knife-clasping  hands,  it  was  a  situation  that 
threatened  his  reason  as  well  as  his  courage. 

Now,  in  addition,  he  faced  the  task  of  saving  the 
business  of  Fort  Dease  from  destruction  by  the 
very  forces  which  he  could  not  control.  He  had 
given  out  an  average  of  five  hundred  dollars  to 
more  than  forty  hunters,  goods  to  be  repaid  with 
furs  in  the  winter  and  spring.  If  the  Indians 
never  came  back,  if  they  took  their  winter's 
catch  to  a  Freetrader  up  the  bay,  it  meant 
that  the  Company  would  lose  the  twenty  thousand 
of  debt  and  the  future  business  of  the  post.  Fail- 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK        95 

ure  to  hold  the  hunters  would  compel  the  clos- 
ing of  Fort  Dease. 

The  solitude,  the  desolation,  the  lack  of  real 
work,  and  the  strain  of  night  and  day  defence 
against  the  weeteego  had  worn  Phil's  spirit. 
Now  the  sudden  realization  of  the  danger  to  the 
Company  aroused  him  as  nothing  else  could.  It 
was  a  battle-cry  to  the  loyalty  of  an  old  Hudson's 
Bay  man.  It  recovered  for  him  almost  magically 
all  his  former  defiance. 

But  it  could  not  bring  a  plan  of  action.  Des- 
perate as  was  his  need,  he  seemed  helpless  in  the 
situation  that  confronted  him.  Without  dogs  it 
would  be  madness  for  him  to  attempt  to  travel 
even  so  far  as  the  nearest  outpost  of  the  Company. 
He  could  not  carry  or  drag  enough  food  to  last  him 
until  he  reached  his  destination.  The  trail  would 
have  to  be  broken  through  deep  snow.  More 
important  still,  the  route  must  be  known.  Only 
an  Indian  could  be  trusted  to  make  such  a  journey. 
Only  an  Indian  could  cross  that  vast  space  with 
certainty. 

For  a  week  Phil  strove  for  some  solution. 
With  the  weeteego  still  alive  and  threatening  the 
post  it  would  be  futile  to  attempt  to  reason  with 
the  hunters.  Nor  would  they  be  willing  even 
under  his  leadership  to  wage  war  on  the  evil  spirit. 
Help  in  that  task  must  come  from  outside.  And 
after  that  there  must  be  dogs  and  Indians  to  carry 
the  news  of  the  capture.  Passive  resistance  to  the 
weeteego  might  suffice  with  only  his  own  life  in 


96  PENITENTIARY  POST 

danger.  But  the  crisis  to  the  fort  demanded 
action. 

Why  Phil  felt  this  he  could  not  have  told.  It 
was  the  unconscious  effect  of  the  history  of  the 
Company.  Every  post  established  in  the  wilder- 
ness was  witness  to  the  force,  the  unconquerable 
will,  and  the  unselfish  loyalty  of  the  Company's 
servants.  Always  it  had  meant  a  struggle. 
Sometimes  it  had  meant  bloodshed  and  the 
sacrifice  of  life.  Each  stood  as  the  symbol  of 
accomplishment.  The  relinquishment  of  one 
would  be  a  breach  of  trust  to  the  men  who  had 
battled  before  him.  Fort  Dease  must  not  be  lost 
through  his  inactivity. 

But  the  tenacity  of  his  purpose  brought  no 
solution.  The  very  hopelessness  of  his  plight 
made  him  savage.  His  impotence  in  the  face  of 
this  great  need  sent  him  pacing  for  long  hours  each 
night  up  and  down  the  living  room. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  desperate  moods  and  on  a 
stormy  night  that  the  weeteego  again  visited  Fort 
Dease.  One  of  Phil's  precautions,  since  he  had 
converted  night  into  day,  had  been  to  tack 
blankets  over  the  windows  so  that  no  light  would 
shine  through.  Then,  if  the  unknown  came,  he 
could  not  tell  whether  Phil  was  in  bed. 

For  a  long  time  he  had  been  sitting  in  his  chair 
staring  at  the  wall  in  front  of  him,  concentrating 
with  all  his  power  on  the  problem  of  reaching  the 
Indians.  He  was  aroused  by  a  faint  noise  in  the 
kitchen  and  jumped  to  his  feet,  every  nerve  tense. 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK        97 

Again  the  sound  came  to  him,  and  he  located  it 
at  once.  The  weeteego  was  trying  to  lift  the 
latch  of  the  outside  kitchen  door. 

Phil  turned  the  light  very  low,  picked  up  his 
rifle,  and  walked  noiselessly  into  the  dining  room. 
Slowly  and  carefully  he  unlatched  and  swung 
back  the  door  into  the  kitchen  and  listened. 
Again  he  heard  a  sound.  Instantly  he  lifted  his 
rifle  to  his  shoulder  and  fired. 

While  the  room  still  shook  with  the  report, 
Phil  ran  back  and  turned  up  the  lamp.  He  rushed 
out  into  the  kitchen,  his  rifle  in  one  hand,  the 
light  in  the  other,  to  find  the  outer  door  open. 

A  quick  glance  told  him  the  room  was  empty. 
He  set  the  lamp  on  the  table  and  cautiously 
crossed  the  kitchen  to  close  the  door,  only  to  re- 
treat when  he  realized  the  danger  of  such  an  un- 
protected position.  The  weeteego  might  be 
waiting  outside.  In  a  close  encounter  his  rifle 
would  be  useless. 

As  Phil  stood  there,  irresolute,  the  weird  howl, 
now  familiar  but  always  startling,  came  from  on 
the  bog.  When  released  from  the  paralyzing  in- 
fluence of  the  wailing  notes  that  rose  and  fell  with 
the  wind,  he  sprang  forward  and  slammed  the 
door,  only  to  have  it  fly  back  before  the  storm. 

Again  he  heard  the  howl,  and  when  it  ended  he 
reached  for  the  latch.  It  was  gone.  He  groped 
with  his  fingers  and  found  that  he  had  shot  it  away 
when  he  had  fired  at  the  door. 

The  discovery  brought  a  soothing  relief.     For 


98  PENITENTIARY  POST 

a  time  he  had  believed  that  the  weeteego  had 
solved  the  lock,  that  bars  and  hinges  were  power- 
less against  him.  This  plain  evidence  of  the  lack 
of  the  supernatural  helped  to  bring  a  rational  state 
of  mind,  and  Phil  propped  a  stick  of  firewood 
against  the  door  and  returned  to  the  warmth  of  the 
living  room. 

He  did  not  fear  a  return  of  the  weeteego.  The 
last  howl  had  come  from  far  away,  and  there 
never  had  been  a  double  attack.  He  turned  the 
lamp  low  as  before  and,  his  rifle  standing  against 
the  wall  beside  him,  stretched  out  in  his  chair. 
The  night  wore  on  and  at  last,  the  stimulation  of 
excitement  gone,  he  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

Phil  believed  at  first  it  was  his  own  voice  that 
wakened  him,  a  yell  that  still  echoed  in  the  little 
room  as  he  started  upright  in  his  chair.  Then  he 
became  conscious  of  an  unfamiliar  odour,  a  strange, 
nauseating,  penetrating  smell  that  drew  his  head 
sharply  around  toward  the  kitchen  door.  There 
was  the  scent  of  wet  hair  and  untanned  skins,  of 
putrid  meat  and  gross  uncleanliness. 

At  the  same  instant  a  huge,  blurry,  hairy  mass 
hurled  itself  toward  him  in  the  gloom,  sprawled  out 
and  fastened  itself  upon  him,  crushing  him  through 
a  wrecked  chair  to  the  floor.  Two  hands  which 
he  knew  were  black  and  swollen  and  hairy  reached 
for  his  throat,  and  there  was  a  hot,  suffocating 
breath  in  his  face. 

What  happened  in  the  next  few  minutes  Phil 
never  knew.  He  could  not  remember  a  con- 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK        99 

scious  act,  a  deliberate  plan.  There  remained  only 
a  recollection  of  bursting  chest  and  of  muscles 
driven  to  superhuman  effort  by  a  remorseless  fear 
of  a  putrid  odour  from  which  he  strove  in  vain  to 
escape. 

Rolling,  striking,  kicking,  be  finally  got  to  his 
feet.  The  fear  of  something  inhuman,  monstrous, 
gave  him  a  strength  and  a  quickness  he  had  never 
known,  and  at  last  he  was  free  of  everything  except 
the  overpowering  odour.  The  table  and  the  lamp 
had  gone  over  with  the  first  rush  of  his  adver- 
sary, and  he  stood,  panting,  waiting,  in  the  in- 
tense darkness. 

A  sound  came  from  across  the  room  and  he 
braced  himself  for  a  renewal  of  the  attack.  There 
was  a  rush  of  padded  feet  on  the  floor,  and  he 
struck  out  blindly  and  in  terror.  Losing  his 
balance,  he  stumbled  into  the  hall  door.  In- 
stantly he  whirled  around,  his  hands  outstretched, 
his  muscles  taut. 

Alert  as  only  a  man  can  be  when  he  faces  death, 
Phil  stood  poised  for  instant  action.  He  held  his 
breath  that  nothing  might  interfere  with  his  hear- 
ing the  faintest  sound.  Outside  there  was  the  noise 
of  the  wind.  Inside  there  was  an  absolute  stillness. 

And  then  from  out  at  the  edge  of  the  bog, 
demoniacal  in  its  fury,  moaning,  baffled,  now  more 
threatening  than  ever,  came  the  howl  of  the 
weeteego.  It  rose  and  fell  and  ended  in  a  scream, 
and  while  it  lasted  Phil  stood  transfixed  with  the 
terror  of  it. 


ioo  PENITENTIARY  POST 

When  it  was  not  repeated  he  went  into  the 
kitchen  and  found  and  lighted  another  lamp.  His 
first  act  was  to  pile  everything  movable  in  the 
room  against  the  outer  door.  Then  he  returned 
to  the  living  room  to  survey  the  damage.  His 
big  easy  chair  was  splintered  beyond  repair, 
the  lamp  was  smashed,  the  table  and  chairs  over- 
turned, and  one  blanket  had  been  torn  from  over  a 
window.  He  tacked  this  in  place,  and  even  as  he 
did  so,  he  looked  fearfully  at  the  window  as  if 
expecting  to  see  a  horrible,  monstrous  face  peering 
in  at  him. 

From  that  night  on  the  manager  of  Fort  Dease 
never  knew  "what  it  was  to  be  without  fear.  He 
was  wakened  from  his  sleep  by  dreams  of  hairy 
monsters  that  breathed  fetid  fumes  in  his  face. 
He  was  startled  from  his  book  or  his  meals  by 
loose  siding  snapping  in  the  wind. 

He  had  sane  moments,  short  periods  when  he 
reasoned  that  he  was  safe  from  attack  when  there 
was  no  storm.  The  weeteego  had  visited  Fort 
Dease  only  at  night  and  only  when  snow  and  wind 
would  cover  all  trace  of  him  before  daylight. 
There  were  times  when  he  remembered  that  he  had 
beaten  the  weeteego  in  a  fair  fight,  that  he  had 
driven  him  to  rout  after  a  blind  struggle  in  the 
dark. 

But  one  feature  of  that  struggle  had  come  to  him 
with  a  terrible  significance.  The  morning  after 
the  fight  he  had  found  in  the  dining  room  the  long, 
rusty  knife  that  had  been  thrust  inside  his  bed- 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK       101 

room  door  that  night  he  had  seen  the  weeteego's 
hands.  The  sight  of  it  brought  the  recollection 
that  he  had  heard  it  drop  just  at  the  instant  the 
burly,  shaggy  form  had  hurled  itself  upon  him. 

He  remembered,  too,  that  not  once  had  he  been 
struck,  not  once  had  there  been  an  attempt  to 
gouge  or  bite,  although  he  had  felt  the  black, 
swollen  hands  over  his  eyes  and  the  face  of  the 
monster  had  been  pressed  against  his.  There  had 
been  only  an  attempt  to  smother  him  by  sheer 
weight,  to  bind  his  arms  and  to  pinion  him  to  the 
floor. 

There  was  only  one  explanation  of  this.  The 
weeteego  had  not  sought  to  kill  him.  He  would 
have  kept  the  knife  to  do  that,  and  he  had  a  gun 
or  he  would  not  have  stolen  the  gunpowder.  In 
the  struggle  he  could  have  struck,  or  maimed, 
could  have  torn  Phil's  throat  with  his  teeth,  once 
could  have  battered  his  head  against  the  floor. 
But  he  had  done  none  of  these  things.  He  had  only 
tried  to  overpower  Phil,  to  make  him  a  prisoner. 

The  thought  of  being  in  the  hands  of  the  wee- 
teego was  far  more  terrifying  than  death.  What- 
ever this  monster  was,  sane  or  mad,  white  or  red, 
human  or  half  animal,  to  be  held  captive  by  it  was 
unthinkable. 

This  fear  grew  as  the  days  passed  until  it 
became  an  obsession.  Phil  forgot  the  failure  of 
the  Indians  to  come  in  at  New  Year's,  the  loss  to 
the  Company.  It  was  seldom  that  he  thought  of 
Joyce.  He  did  not  remember  Wickson  at  all. 


102  PENITENTIARY  POST 

His  nights  became  interminable  periods  of  sus- 
pense, his  days  short,  unsatisfying  naps.  He  be- 
came thin,  haggard.  He  never  left  the  house  to 
get  wood  without  standing  his  rifle  by  the  kitchen 
door.  When  the  frost  smoke  permitted,  he  spent 
long  hours  searching  the  white  waste  about  him  for 
some  sign  of  life. 

Most  of  the  time  Phil  sat  in  a  chair,  merely 
waiting.  Sometimes  he  had  slight  bursts  of 
energy.  In  one  of  these  he  got  bear  traps  from  the 
trading  shop  and  set  them  in  front  of  the  windows. 
He  argued  once  that  the  weeteego  must  have  food, 
forgetting  that  nothing  eatable  had  ever  been 
taken  from  the  cache  or  the  kitchen,  and  filled 
pieces  of  bannock  with  strychnine  and  placed  them 
outside  the  kitchen  door. 

The  weeteego  came  again.  Every  time  there 
was  a  storm  his  howl  was  heard  out  on  the  marshes. 
Twice  Phil  heard  him  at  the  kitchen  door  and 
fired  his  rifle  as  quickly  as  he  could  work  the  lever, 
with  no  other  result  than  a  badly  weakened  barrier. 
Once  more  he  found  a  half-eaten  ptarmigan  near 
the  Indian  house  and  immediately  he  set  bear 
traps  at  the  door.  After  the  next  storm  he 
found  them  snapped  and  tossed  to  one  side. 

January  passed  and  most  of  February.  The  last 
week  of  his  third  month  alone  at  Fort  Dease  it 
snowed  continuously.  The  great,  flat  waste  in 
which  he  lived  was  wrapped  in  a  driving  white 
cloud.  Day  and  night  the  storm  continued,  and 
day  and  night  the  weeteego  howled.  After  three 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK       103 

days  of  it  Phil's  nerves  were  strained  to  the  break- 
ing point.  He  was  no  longer  sane,  no  longer 
capable  of  anything  except  a  constant  watch.  He 
lived  in  a  chair  beside  the  stove,  sleeping  fitfully, 
waking  in  spasms  of  terror,  listening  always  for  the 
howl  on  the  marshes. 

The  end  of  the  fourth  day  of  the  storm  found 
him  so  near  exhaustion  that  he  kept  awake  with 
difficulty.  His  nerves  were  raw,  and  twitching.  He 
had  clear  moments  when  he  feared  for  his  reason. 
He  drank  great  quantities  of  hot,  black  tea. 

Darkness  came  early,  with  hardly  a  change  from 
the  grayness  of  the  storm.  The  weeteego  had  not 
howled  for  twenty-four  hours,  and  Phil  had  not 
slept,  waiting  for  him  to  howl.  The  suspense  had 
become  unbearable,  and  he  paced  up  and  down  the 
room  on  the  border  of  frenzy. 

And  then  it  came,  as  startling  as  ever,  wailing, 
moaning,  threatening.  Phil  paused  in  the  centre 
of  the  room  and  shook  his  fist  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound.  Then  he  grasped  his  skin  coat  from  the 
wall  and  bound  it  about  him  with  the  long, 
coloured  assumption  belt.  He  slipped  on  his  big 
gauntlet  mittens  and  tightened  the  drawstring  of 
the  coat's  hood  about  his  face.  Feverishly  he 
picked  up  his  rifle  and  dashed  through  the  kitchen, 
out  into  the  storm  and  the  darkness. 

His  snow-shoes  were  standing  upright  in  a  drift  and 
in  a  moment  his  feet  were  in  the  lashings.  Then, 
eager,  intent,  he  listened  for  a  repetition  of  the  howl. 

It  sounded   almost   instantly,   far  out  on  the 


io4  PENITENTIARY  POST 

marsh  up  the  river,  and  with  a  swish  of  flying  snow 
Phil  leaped  toward  it. 

He  had  no  plan,  no  lucid  idea  of  what  he  was 
about  to  do.  He  only  knew  that  off  there  ahead  of 
him,  somewhere  in  the  storm,  was  the  cause  of  all 
his  trouble,  the  thing  that  was  driving  him  mad. 
His  one  desire  was  to  find  it,  to  crush  it,  to  end  its 
fiendish  torture.  He  felt  that  he  must  sleep,  that 
he  must  have  rest,  and  he  knew  that  he  could 
not  so  long  as  the  weeteego  lived. 

After  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  he  paused  to 
listen.  He  heard  it  again  and  plunged  on  at  once, 
not  realizing  that  this  last  howl  was  different  from 
any  he  had  ever  heard.  For  the  first  time  it  had  a 
note  of  fear,  of  dismay,  almost  of  terror.  It  was 
short,  quick,  yelping  like  a  brush  wolf's  clatter. 

Phil  ran  despite  the  deep  snow.  It  was  terrific 
work,  but  he  did  not  know  it,  no  more  than  did  he 
realize  that  he  was  out  of  sight  of  the  fort,  without 
a  sense  of  direction,  rushing  on  blindly  in  the  storm. 

Sheer  weariness  brought  him  to  a  halt  at  last  and 
he  listened.  There  was  only  the  rustling  of  the 
snow  particles  driven  across  the  drifts  and  the  roar 
of  the  wind.  Still  expectant,  still  eager,  Phil 
waited,  ready  to  dash  forward  at  the  first  note. 

Then  from  off  to  the  right  came  a  single,  sharp 
cry,  so  totally  different  from  the  howl  of  the  wee- 
teego that  Phil  turned,  bewildered,  stupefied.  It 
was  repeated,  and  then  clearly,  distinctly  above  the 
storm  he  heard  a  voice  that  was  unmistakable — 

"Phil!     Phil!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   WEETEEGO'S    LAST   ATTACK 

THE  voice  of  Joyce  Plummer  coming  to  him 
out  of  the  storm  and  the  darkness  could  not 
clear  Phil's  brain  of  the  cobwebs  with  which 
it  had   been   cluttered   for  more  than   a  month. 
It  was  too  unreal.     The  thought  that  it  could  be 
Joyce   was   too   impossible.     She   was    separated 
from  him  by  five  hundred  miles  of  wilderness,  by  a 
northern  winter,  by  conditions  too  severe  for  her 
soft  muscles  and  tender  skin. 

And  yet  so  compelling  had  been  the  call,  Phil 
started  at  once  in  the  direction  from  which  it  had 
come.  As  he  plunged  ahead,  sending  the  snow 
flying  from  his  webs,  he  forgot  the  weeteego  com- 
pletely. Her  voice,  his  delirium,  brought  a  new 
and  more  terrifying  obsession.  Joyce  was  in 
Wickson's  power  back  at  Savant  House.  He  had 
broken  trail  through  half  a  thousand  miles  of  drifts 
to  save  her. 

"I'm  coming!"  he  cried  when  he  heard  her  voice 
again.  "I'm  coming!  I'll  kill  him." 

He  imagined  that  he  was  out  on  the  lake  in  front 
of  Savant  House.  He  expected  that  each  step 
would  bring  him  to  the  rise  leading  up  from  the  ice. 
Fifty  yards  after  that  and  he  would  be  at  the  door 

105 


io6  PENITENTIARY  POST 

of  the  dwelling  house.  Would  he  never  reach  the 
shore  ?  Where  was  Osborne  ? 

"I'm  coming!"  he  called  again. 

And  then  in  the  storm  and  darkness  ahead  of  him 
he  saw  something  darker,  shadowy  in  the  snow. 
In  another  moment  he  was  upon  it. 

"Phil!  Phil!"  came  a  voice,  and  Joyce  reached 
out  her  arms  to  him. 

"Where  is  he?"  demanded  Phil  as  he  looked  over 
her  shoulder. 

"He  passed  me  right  back  there,  just  before  I 
called.  Did  you  hear  him?" 

"No,  I  didn't  hear  any  one  except  you." 

"Not  that  terrible  howl?  I  thought  it  was  a 
wolf  at  first,  and  then  he  almost  ran  into  me. 
When  he  saw  me  he  turned  and  ran  right  where 
you  came  from,  and  he  screamed  again,  worse  than 
before.  Was  that  the  weeteego,  Phil?" 

"Weeteego?" 

He  could  only  repeat  what  she  said.  As  his 
brain  cleared  of  the  fog  and  he  began  to  realize 
something  of  the  true  situation  he  became  the  more 
bewildered. 

"There  is  a  weeteego,  isn't  there?  That's  why 
I  came,  Phil.  I  heard  you  were  all  alone  up  here 
and  that  something  terrible,  a  weeteego,  was  trying 
to  kill  you." 

"You  came!     From  Savant  House?" 

More  than  her  presence  there  beside  him  in  the 
storm,  the  knowledge  of  what  such  a  trip  must 
have  meant  served  to  bring  order  to  his  confused 


THE  WEETEEGO'S  LAST  ATTACK    107 

brain.  But  returning  sanity  only  added  to  his 
bewilderment. 

"Of  course,"  Joyce  said.     "Is  it  far  from  here?'* 

"Far?     Where?" 

She  peered  at  him  anxiously,  trying  to  see  his 
face  in  the  darkness. 

"To  Fort  Dease?" 

"No,  no.  Not  far.  The  river  must  be  here 
somewhere." 

"Yes,  it's  right  beside  us." 

"Then  we  just  follow  it  downstream.  It's  not 
far.  We'll  be  there  in  a  few  minutes.  Come 
on." 

"But  Phil!    The  dogs!" 

"The  dogs!  Of  course.  There  must  have  been 
dogs." 

He  turned  back  and  Joyce  took  his  hand. 

"They're  right  here  behind  us,"  she  said,  gently. 
"I  was  breaking  trail  for  them.  Come  and  we'll 
get  them." 

Together  they  went  a  few  yards  on  Joyce's 
back  trail. 

"Here  they  are,"  she  said  when  the  leader  shook 
the  snow  from  his  coat  and  sprang  to  his  feet  just 
in  front  of  her.  "You  lead  the  way,  Phil,  and 
they'll  follow.  They  know  me." 

He  did  as  she  said  and  began  to  break  out  a  trail 
along  the  river,  the  high,  cut  bank  of  which  was 
dimly  visible  on  his  left.  He  kept  on  until  a  slight 
rise  told  him  he  was  nearing  the  picket  fence  and 
then  veered  slightly  until  he  struck  it. 


io8  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"We're  almost  there,"  he  said  as  he  turned. 
"The  dogs  coming  all  right?" 

"Yes.     They're  coming." 

By  the  time  Phil  had  ploughed  through  from  the 
gate  to  the  kitchen  door  his  brain  had  cleared  com- 
pletely. In  the  same  time  Joyce,  remembering  his 
queer  questions  and  uncertain,  hesitating  actions, 
came  to  the  firm  conclusion  that  he,  like  his  prede- 
cessor, had  become  deranged  as  a  result  of  the 
months  alone  in  haunted  Fort  Dease.  So  fearful 
had  she  been  of  finding  him  a  babbling  idiot,  so 
certain  had  she  been  after  the  first  words  with  him, 
Joyce  found  herself  trembling  with  the  dread  of 
what  she  faced. 

As  Phil  stopped  at  the  kitchen  door  he  saw  the 
poisoned  bannocks  he  had  placed  outside  for  the 
weeteego.  He  snatched  them  up  at  once  and 
carried  them  inside  without  a  word.  Then  the 
thought  of  the  bear  traps  in  front  of  the  windows 
suddenly  came  to  him.  He  hurried  out  and 
grasped  the  leader  by  the  trace. 

"Go  inside,"  he  called  to  Joyce  as  he  began  to 
drag  the  team  away  from  the  house.  "Go  in 
where  it's  warm.  I'll  put  up  the  dogs." 

He  tugged  violently,  for  the  dogs,  hungry  and 
tired,  had  smelled  the  place  where  the  food  had 
been  and  were  trying  to  break  away  toward  the 
side  of  the  house.  Joyce  hesitated  a  moment  and 
then  sprang  to  help  him.  She  ran  toward  the 
wheel  dog,  only  to  be  forced  back  by  the  team  to- 
ward the  window  of  Phil's  bedroom. 


THE  WEETE  EGO'S  LAST  ATTACK    109 

"Go  back!"  he  cried,  excitedly.  "Go  back  into 
the  kitchen." 

He  dropped  the  leader's  trace  and  darted 
across  to  Joyce,  who  was  not  more  than  two  feet 
from  the  bear  traps  hidden  beneath  the  snow.  He 
grasped  her  roughly  and  pulled  her  back  to  the 
kitchen  door. 

"Go  in!"  he  cried  as  he  sprang  again  to  the 
leader  of  the  now-disorganized  team. 

By  sheer  strength  he  straightened  out  the  dogs 
in  their  traces,  lifting  the  leader  clear  of  the  ground 
as  he  pulled,  and  still  by  sheer  strength  he  dragged 
the  team  after  him  toward  the  kennels.  Joyce, 
more  certain  than  ever  of  his  complete  mental 
derangement,  turned  and  stumbled  into  the  dark 
kitchen.  Her  knees  struck  a  bench  and  she  sat 
down,  the  strength  suddenly  gone  as  was  the  spirit 
which  had  driven  her  all  the  way  from  Savant 
House. 

Phil  did  not  come  in  for  fifteen  minutes  or  more. 
As  Joyce  waited  all  the  forebodings  engendered 
during  the  four  weeks  of  her  journey  from  Savant 
House  enveloped  her.  She  was  alone  in  a  lifeless 
world  with  a  fear-haunted  maniac.  The  thing 
she  dreaded  most  had  come  to  the  one  she  loved 
most,  but  even  a  sense  of  the  responsibility  that 
she  now  knew  to  be  hers  could  not  lift  her  above 
the  crushing  hopelessness  of  her  predicament.  By 
her  long  journey  she  had  conquered  the  North, 
only  to  lose  to  it  at  the  end. 


no  PENITENTIARY  POST 

And  then  Phil  entered,  groped  about  for  the 
lamp  and  lit  it.  His  quarter  of  an  hour  spent  in 
unharnessing  and  feeding  the  dogs,  in  springing 
the  bear  traps  he  had  set  beneath  the  windows, 
had  completed  the  work  of  restoring  his  wandering 
wits.  To  him  responsibility  had  brought  sanity  and 
sanity  had  brought  fearlessness  and  confidence. 

"Joyce!"  he  cried  as  he  turned  and  saw  her  in 
the  light  for  the  first  time.  "Why  did  you  come 
out  here  to  Dease?" 

"I  had  to,  Phil." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  hesitated  a  moment,  search- 
ing his  eyes  for  a  sight  of  the  thing  she  had  heard 
in  his  voice  out  there  in  the  storm  and  darkness. 
But  it  was  not  there  and,  dizzy  with  the  delight  of 
it,  she  swayed  forward  into  his  waiting  arms. 

"Why  did  you  come?"  Phil  repeated  after  a 
moment. 

"No  one  else  would  come.  No  one  else  would 
believe  you  needed  help.  And  you  do,  don't  you, 
Phil?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"And  you're — you're  all  right,  Phil?" 

"Certainly,  I'm  all  right.  But  nothing  that 
could  ever  happen  to  me  could  be  worth  such  a 
trip  for  you.  What  made  you  come?" 

"Start  the  fire  and  get  me  something  to  eat  and 
I'll  tell  you  as  you  work.  I'm  nearly  famished. 
I  haven't  had  anything  since  breakfast,  and  you 
were  in  sight  when  it  stopped  snowing  for  a  minute 
this  morning,  just  as  I  was  starting." 


THE  WEETEEGO'S  LAST  ATTACK    in 

"You  were  out  there  alone  in  that  storm  all  day 
and  camped  near  here  last  night!" 

It  was  the  thought  of  the  weeteego,  not  of  the 
storm,  that  brought  the  exclamation  from  Phil, 
and  for  an  instant  the  old  terror  was  in  his  eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  Joyce  asked  quickly. 

"Nothing,"  he  answered,  thinking  she  had  seen 
his  fear. 

"But  I  saw  it,  just  before  I  called  to  you,  down 
there  on  the  bank  of  the  river.  Was  that  the 
weeteego  ? " 

"Weeteego!     Nonsense!" 

"But  Phil!  I  saw  it,  and  you  were  out  there 
looking  for  it.  And  the  half-breed  who  ran  away 
and  left  you  alone  said  he  saw  it  and  that  you  did, 
right  here  in  this  house.  The  Indians  who  brought 
me  almost  here  were  afraid  of  it." 

Before  Phil  returned  from  putting  up  the  dogs 
he  had  determined,  if  possible,  to  keep  all  knowl- 
edge of  the  mysterious  spectre  of  the  storms  from 
Joyce.  His  own  haunted  weeks  were  so  vivid,  the 
terror  of  them  so  fresh,  the  delirium  from  which  he 
had  just  been  freed  still  so  oppressive,  he  knew  that 
she  must  be  spared  an  experience  similar  to  his 
own. 

"Sandy  was  always  seeing  things,"  he  replied, 
carelessly,  as  he  busied  himself  with  the  fire.  "I'm 
glad  he  got  out.  Only  mooned  around  the  kitchen 
here  talking  weeteego  until  he  was  off  his  head." 

"But  Phil!  The  man  ran  past  me  back  there  on 
the  river!  Who  was  he?" 


ii2  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"An  Indian  was  in  to  trade  this  morning.  Per- 
haps he  was  camped  somewhere  around  here  and 
when  he  ran  into  you  he  thought  you  were  the 
weeteego,  though  there  never  was  a  weeteego  out- 
side of  Sandy's  head." 

"And  you  haven't  seen  anything,  or  heard 
anything,  since  you've  been  here?" 

"Not  a  thing." 

Phil  was  bending  over  the  kettle  as  he  spoke. 
Suddenly  he  leaped  to  the  middle  of  the  room, 
every  nerve  taut,  his  eyes  staring  at  the  door. 
Joyce  at  the  same  instant  had  jumped  from  her 
bench  and  clung  to  him.  Together  they  stood  for 
a  moment,  tense,  alert,  terrified,  while  above  the 
sound  of  the  wind  rose  and  fell  that  demoniacal 
howl  of  the  weeteego. 

There  was  a  new  note  of  savagery,  of  desperate 
defiance,  in  the  long,  weird  wail,  and  it  ended  in  a 
diabolic  shriek  that  left  Phil  as  nerveless  as  it  did 
Joyce. 

But  he  was  the  first  to  recover,  and  his  laugh  was 
perfectly  natural  as  he  said : 

"That  certainly  startled  me.  It's  the  first 
sound  I've  heard  all  winter,  unless  I  made  it  my- 
self. It  isn't  often  a  wolf  comes  around  Fort 
Dease." 

He  turned  back  to  the  stove,  but  Joyce  grasped 
his  arm  and  pulled  him  around  until  he  faced  her. 

"Listen,  Phil,"  she  commanded.  "Don't  try 
to  deceive  me.  You  can't.  You  never  could  with 
those  eyes  and  that  face  and  your  nervousness. 


THE  WEETEEGO'S  LAST  ATTACK    113 

I  know  Sandy  told  the  truth.  I  felt  it  from  the 
first.  That  is  why  I  came.  And  because  I  know 
some  of  it,  you  must  tell  me  everything.  I'm  here, 
and  I'm  going  to  stay  here  with  you.  Now  tell 
me  about  this  weeteego." 

Phil  knew  at  once  that  it  was  useless  to  try  to 
deceive  Joyce.  As  he  saw  how  cool  and  unterri- 
fied  she  was,  as  he  thought  of  the  five  hundred 
miles  she  had  travelled  to  be  with  him,  he  felt 
suddenly  ashamed  of  his  own  weakness  in  suc- 
cumbing to  something  that  had  only  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  supernatural. 

"I  don't  know  what  is,"  he  said,  simply.  "It's 
human,  of  course,  but  whether  it's  red  or  white, 
or  insane  or  not,  I  don't  know.  It's  clever  enough 
to  come  only  when  there  is  a  storm  so  that  I 
haven't  been  able  to  track  it,  and  it  stands  off 
there  on  the  marshes  and  howls  like  you  just  heard. 
Of  course  that  sort  of  thing  gets  on  your  nerves 
when  you're  all  alone  in  this  hole." 

"But  doesn't  it  do  any  more  than  howl?" 

Phil  hesitated.  He  did  not  want  to  tell  all  that 
the  weeteego  had  done.  As  he  searched  his 
imagination  for  a  harmless  story  he  saw  Joyce 
look  at  the  splintered  door. 

"Did  he  ever  get  in?"  she  asked. 

"He  always  makes  an  attempt,"  he  answered, 
suddenly  finding  himself  unable  even  to  belittle 
the  weeteego's  activities.  "Once  since  Sandy  left 
he  did.  He  caught  me  asleep  in  the  living  room, 
but  I  managed  to  get  loose  and  he  ran." 


ii4  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"Why  didn't  he  kill  you  while  you  were  asleep  ?" 

"That's  the  queer  part  of  it.  He  could  have 
done  so,  easily.  But  he  seemed  bent  on  capturing 
me  alive." 

"Capturing  you  alive!" 

Joyce  lost  some  of  her  self-possession  and 
courage,  but  she  quickly  recovered  both. 

"Why  haven't  you  killed  him?" 

"I  have  tried.  I  have  shot  at  him  there  at  the 
door  three  times,  and  I've  set  bear  traps,  and  I've 
put  out  poisoned  food.  But  he  never  wants  food. 
He  never  takes  it  when  he  can.  Long  ago  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  take  my  first  chance  to  shoot  him, 
but  he  never  comes  except  in  big  storms  and  at 
night." 

"  But  with  both  of  us  here,  and  he  knows  you  are 
not  alone  now,  there  will  be  no  danger,"  Joyce  said, 
confidently. 

"No,  because  we  are  going  to  leave  at  once." 

"  Phil !    Not  desert  the  Company ! " 

"The  Company  has  been  deserted.  This  wee- 
teego  has  driven  all  the  Indians  away.  None  of 
them  came  in  at  New  Year's  and  they  won't  come 
in  the  spring.  I  gave  out  twenty  thousand  dol- 
lars' worth  of  debt  and  the  Company  stands  to  lose 
that  and  all  future  business  here.  I've  got  to  get 
out  and  round  up  the  Indians  before  they  get  to  the 
opposition  down  the  Bay  this  summer.  I  would 
have  been  away  from  here  six  weeks  or  more  ago 
if  I  could  have  gone.  But  without  dogs  it  would 
have  been  impossible." 


THE  WEETE EGO'S  LAST  ATTACK    115 

"And  we'll  go  out  together!"  Joyce  cried  ex- 
citedly. "  Phil,  that  will  be  the  jolliest  sort  of  a 
trip.  Just  you  and  I  together  in  the  wilderness. 
We  can  do  it,  can't  we?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  taking  you  only  so  far  as 
Lowry's  nearest  outpost  and  then  getting  Indians 
to  guide  me  to  the  hunters'  camps.  Only  an  In- 
dian could  find  them.  But  Joyce!  You  haven't 
told  me  how  you  got  here." 

"But  we  can  go  to  the  outpost  together,"  she 
cried,  ignoring  his  question.  "We'll  do  that  much 
together,  and,  Phil,  we'll  save  Fort  Dease  in  spite 
of  Wickson." 

"WThat  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded. 

"Wickson  wouldn't  send  help  when  he  heard 
what  had  happened  here.  He  laughed  and  said 
there  was  nothing  the  matter,  that  you  had  let  an 
Indian  superstition  ruin  the  post  and  could  stay 
here  until  you  got  out  the  best  way  you  could. 
He  said  if  you  weren't  man  enough  to  handle  some 
gullible  natives  he  didn't  want  you  in  his  district." 

"He  didn't  say  that  to  you?"  demanded  Phil, 
fiercely. 

"No,  he  told  Mr.  Osborne,  and  Mrs.  Osborne 
told  me.  Then  he  left  on  a  trip  of  inspection  in  the 
western  part  of  his  district.  The  day  after  he  left 
I  started.  The  Osbornes  tried  to  keep  me.  They 
said  I  could  never  get  here.  They  said  you  were 
all  right  and  that  the  story  had  grown  by  the  time 
that  it  reached  Savant  House,  as  such  stories  al- 
ways do.  They  even  believed  that  Sandy  had  run 


n6  PENITENTIARY  POST 

away  because  he  had  had  trouble  with  you  and 
that  there  wasn't  any  weeteego  after  all. 

"But  I  came,  anyway.  I  had  some  money,  and 
Mrs.  Osborne  helped  me  to  get  two  Indians  and 
two  dog  teams,  and  we  went  to  Mr.  Lowry's  post, 
and  then  to  his  outpost,  and  then  here.  Only 
yesterday  morning  the  Indians  refused  to  go  any 
farther. 

"They  had  heard  about  the  weeteego  and  they 
said  night  before  last  that  they  had  heard  it  howl. 
They  were  going  to  take  both  teams  of  dogs  and  go 
back.  But  I  made  them  leave  one  for  me,  and  I 
broke  trail  all  yesterday  and  to-day.  It  wasn't 
far.  Only  fifteen  or  sixteen  miles,  they  said,  right 
down  the  bank  of  the  river.  And  I  had  ridden 
nearly  all  the  way  from  Savant  House  and  wasn't 
tired." 

"  Did  they  start  right  back  ? "  asked  Phil,  quickly. 

"No.  They  said  they  would  wait  there  a  day 
and  rest.  Then  they  were  to  start  straight  back 
for  the  outpost." 

"And  had  you  followed  the  river  very  far  before 
they  stopped?" 

"Yes,  for  several  days." 

"That's  great!"  he  exclaimed,  joyfully.  "We 
need  only  follow  the  river  until  we  strike  their  trail. 
It  will  be  easy  going  after  that  and  it  will  be 
certain.  We  won't  have  more  than  three  days  of 
travel  before  the  end  of  the  storm  permits  us  to  see 
where  they  went,  and  we  may  even  catch  them." 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  Phil,  for  after  he  had 


THE  WEETE EGO'S  LAST  ATTACK    117 

broached  his  plan  of  starting  back  at  once  with 
Joyce  he  had  realized  that  he  would  be  risking 
her  life  as  well  as  his  own  in  an  attempt  to  cross 
the  white  desert  without  a  trail  to  guide  him. 

"We'll  start  the  moment  the  storm  is  over," 
he  said  as  he  turned  again  to  his  task  of  preparing 
a  meal. 

After  supper  they  sat  in  the  living  room  for  a 
long  time.  The  weeteego  was  forgotten.  The 
storm  had  ended  soon  after  supper  and  the  sky  was 
clear.  They  knew  they  could  start  in  the  morning, 
but,  though  they  needed  the  sleep,  there  was  too 
much  to  talk  about.  Joyce  drew  from  Phil  much 
of  the  story  of  his  lonely  vigil  out  there  on  the  edge 
of  the  world,  but  mostly  they  talked  of  them- 
selves, in  that  happy,  aimless  fashion  of  lovers. 

Inevitably  the  subject  of  Wickson  came  up. 

"Did  he  bother  you?"  asked  Phil,  vehemently. 

"Not  disagreeably.  Really,  Phil,  had  it  been 
under  other  circumstances  I  wouldn't  have  cared  so 
much.  He  is  an  unusual  man  in  many  ways.  He 
can  be  most  interesting,  and  agreeable,  only  he 
never  could  be  to  me  after  what  he  made  you 
suffer.  I'd  be  afraid  of  him,  if  I  were  near  him  too 
long.  He  gives  the  impression  of  invincibility, 
somehow.  You  can't  help  but  believe  he  gains 
everything  he  sets  out  to  gain.  Just  that  im- 
pression of  him  weakens  any  one.  I — I'm  afraid 
of  him." 

Phil  glared  at  the  stove  and  said  nothing. 


ii8  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"But  you're  not  afraid!     For  me!"  Joyce  cried. 

He  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant. 

"Never,  sweetheart,"  he  whispered.  "After 
what  you've  done  I'll  never  again  know  what  any 
sort  of  fear  is." 

Phil  turned  his  bedroom  over  to  Joyce  and  said 
he  would  make  a  bed  on  the  couch  in  the  living 
room. 

"But  the  weeteego?"  she  asked.  "Hadn't  we 
better  take  turns  sleeping?" 

"He'll  never  bother  us  on  a  clear  night.  He 
never  has.  He's  clever  enough  to  come  only  when 
he  will  leave  no  tracks.  No,  we  needn't  worry 
about  him.  I'll  sleep  out  here,  and  as  soon  as  we 
can  in  the  morning  we'll  get  started." 

But  Phil  did  not  prepare  for  sleep.  He  had  no 
intention  of  doing  so.  Whatever  the  weeteego's 
habits,  he  would  not  take  any  chances  so  long  as 
Joyce  was  in  the  house.  He  piled  furniture  against 
the  kitchen  door.  In  the  living-room  he  turned 
the  lamp  far  down  and  sat  on  the  couch  with 
his  back  to  the  wall,  his  rifle  beside  him.  He  made 
himself  as  uncomfortable  as  possible  that  he  might 
not  fall  asleep. 

But  his  exhaustion  was  far  greater  than  he  had 
realized  in  the  excitement  of  Joyce's  arrival. 
Once  in  the  night  she  crept  out  and  found  him 
lying  on  his  side,  deep  in  sleep.  She  brought  a 
blanket  from  her  bed  and  laid  it  gently  over  him, 
dropped  a  soft  kiss  on  his  hair  and  went  back  to 
bed. 


THE  WEETEEGO'S  LAST  ATTACK    119 

When  Joyce  wakened  again  it  was  daylight. 
She  listened  for  a  moment  but  there  were  no 
sounds.  She  knew  that  Phil  had  meant  to  start  as 
quickly  as  possible  and  she  believed  that  he  was 
out  harnessing  the  dogs. 

But  when  no  sound  came  after  fifteen  minutes 
of  drowsy  waiting  she  sprang  from  bed  and  rushed 
out  into  the  living  room. 

"Phil!"  she  called  when  she  found  the  place 
empty.  "Phil!" 

The  room  was  very  cold  and  she  went  out  to  the 
kitchen.  The  outside  door  was  open.  The  sight 
of  it  threw  her  into  a  vague  panic. 

"Phil!  Phil!"  she  cried,  as  she  rushed  to  look 
out. 

In  the  deep  snow  near  the  house  she  saw  the 
tracks  made  when  she  and  Phil  had  come  with  the 
dogs.  The  storm  had  half  buried  them,  rounding 
the  edges  and  corners,  rendering  them  shapeless. 

But  over  all  else,  sharp  and  clear  and  standing 
out  with  sculptural  distinctness,  were  the  tracks 
of  a  toboggan  that  had  been  brought  to  the  door 
and  then  taken  away.  Beside  it  were  great,  shape- 
less footprints,  and  directly  in  front  of  the  door  was 
a  huge,  round,  deep  impression  that  might  have 
been  made  by  a  sack  of  grain  tossed  into  the  drift. 

Again  Joyce  called,  but  her  voice  was  lost  in- 
stantly in  the  silence  of  the  vast,  desolate  waste. 
Terrified,  she  rushed  back  to  the  bedroom  and  put 
on  her  moccasins  and  outer  clothing.  Fastening 
the  sash  about  her  skin  coat  as  she  ran,  she  went 


120  PENITENTIARY  POST 

out  to  the  store,  to  the  dog  kennels,  to  the  servant 
house  and  to  the  Indian  house. 

But  nowhere  was  there  a  track,  nowhere  a  sign 
of  Phil,  except  the  bright,  clear  impression  of  a 
toboggan  that  had  been  drawn  out  through  the 
gate  and  then  north  down  the  shore  to  the  ice  along 
the  edge  of  the  bay. 

From  where  she  stood  on  the  bank  of  the  river 
she  could  not  see  any  moving  thing  within  many 
miles.  She  looked  north,  south,  east,  and  west,  but 
everywhere  the  view  was  the  same.  The  white 
expanse  was  unbroken. 

Back  at  the  kitchen  door  she  looked  carefully  at 
the  tracks  made  since  the  storm  had  ended. 
Chiselled  in  the  great,  shapeless  hole  in  the  drift 
was  something  that  furnished  her  first  clue.  As 
if  it  had  been  stamped  in  hot  wax,  there  was  the 
unmistakable  impression  of  a  knotted  rope. 
Even  the  twisted  strands  were  clearly  defined. 

In  terror  Joyce  glanced  at  the  trail  made  by  the 
toboggan  down  to  the  shore  ice.  It  went  straight 
out  from  the  land  until  it  disappeared  on  the  stone- 
like  crust.  And  as  she  looked  she  knew  that  the 
weeteego  had  accomplished  his  purpose,  that  he 
had  captured  Phil  alive. 


CHAPTER  X 

SOLOMON   MOSES 

PHIL  wakened  once  in  the  night  after  Joyce 
had  placed  the  blanket  over  him.  He 
threw  it  off  and  again  sat  bolt  upright, 
his  back  to  the  wall. 

For  a  time  the  fear  of  what  might  have  happened 
while  he  was  asleep  kept  him  alert.  But  his 
nervous  exhaustion  and  need  of  sleep  were  far 
greater  than  he  realized,  and  in  half  an  hour  his 
head  had  dropped  to  one  side  and  he  was  slumber- 
ing so  soundly  that  even  the  penetrating  odour 
that  soon  after  filled  the  room  failed  to  rouse  him. 

So  extreme  was  his  exhaustion  that  he  was  easy 
prey  for  the  great,  hairy  figure  that  padded  softly 
across  the  room  from  the  kitchen  door  and  looked 
down  at  him.  The  next  instant  a  long,  narrow 
bag  of  soft  caribou  skins,  the  hair  on  the  outside, 
was  slipped  over  his  head.  His  body  was  given  a 
quick  pull  and  then  a  thrust  and  his  head  was  on 
the  floor  and  his  feet  sticking  into  the  air  over  the 
edge  of  the  couch. 

So  quickly  was  it  done  that  Phil  did  not  recover 
complete  consciousness  until  the  bag  had  been 
slipped  up  over  his  feet  and  tied  tightly.  His  head 
had  been  thrust  through  a  small  hole  in  the  end  but 

121 


122  PENITENTIARY  POST 

all  the  rest  of  his  body  was  completely  enclosed. 
The  sack  was  so  tight  he  could  not  draw  his 
arms  up  from  his  sides,  and  even  as  he  realized 
what  had  happened  the  weeteego  began  lashing 
him  around  and  around  with  a  rope  so  that  he  was 
perfectly  helpless. 

Phil  did  not  make  a  sound.  After  the  first 
convulsive  twist  of  his  body  he  did  not  even 
struggle.  He  realized  at  once  that  he  could  do 
nothing  to  escape  and  his  first  thought  was  that,  by 
keeping  quiet,  by  not  calling  for  help,  the  weeteego 
would  bear  him  away  without  disturbing  Joyce. 

When  his  prisoner  was  firmly  bound,  the  weeteego 
stood  up  and  looked  around.  He  took  one  step 
toward  the  hall  and  a  yell  of  warning  was  upon 
Phil's  lips.  But  the  bulky,  furry  figure,  shadowy 
in  the  dim  light  from  the  low-turned  lamp,  turned 
suddenly,  picked  something  from  the  floor  and  the 
next  moment  was  pulling  Phil's  otter-skin  cap 
down  over  his  ears.  Then  he  lifted  his  prisoner, 
carried  him  out  through  the  kitchen  door  and 
dumped  him  into  a  snowdrift. 

Phil  landed  in  a  sitting  position  and  saw  at  once 
that  he  had  been  left  alone  and  also  that  he  could, 
by  a  series  of  jerking,  convulsive  movements,  hop 
back  into  the  kitchen.  Before  he  could  draw  up 
his  body  for  the  first  movement  the  weeteego  re- 
appeared from  around  the  corner  of  the  building 
with  a  toboggan.  He  lifted  his  prisoner  into  it 
and  began  to  lash  him  fast. 

Instantly  Phil  strove  with  all  his  strength  to 


SOLOMON  MOSES  123 

throw  himself  off.  He  lifted  his  legs  and  tried  to 
thrust  the  weeteego  from  him.  He  lifted  his  head 
and  butted  futilely.  But  the  great,  hairy  odour- 
ous  thing  only  laughed  as  he  sprawled  out  on  top 
of  his  victim  and  continued  to  lash  him  down.  In 
two  minutes  his  task  was  completed  and  he  had 
jumped  ahead  to  the  traces.  The  toboggan  was 
jerked  forward  and  Phil  saw  the  gate-posts  flash 
by.  There  was  a  short  struggle  in  deep  drifts  and 
then  his  head  dipped  and  he  shot  down  the  gentle 
slope  to  the  bay. 

The  soft,  grating  sound  of  the  toboggan  in  the 
snow  ceased  and  he  began  to  bump  along  on  the 
hard  crust  and  jagged  pieces  of  broken  ice. 
Straight  out  from  shore  he  went  and  then  came  a 
sudden  halt.  Phil  saw  the  weeteego  bending  over 
him  and  then  his  face  was  covered  with  a  piece  of 
caribou  hide.  It  was  very  cold  and  he  was  glad 
of  the  protection,  but  instantly  he  knew  that  it  had 
been  done  for  another  purpose.  Around  and 
around,  until  it  fairly  spun,  the  toboggan  was 
whirled  until  Phil  had  no  sense  whatever  of  direc- 
tion. Then  the  weeteego  started  off  at  a  trot,  the 
toboggan  jerking  and  bumping  over  the  hard  drifts 
and  broken  ice  behind  him. 

As  Phil  lay  there,  unable  to  get  an  inkling  from 
the  stars  as  to  which  way  he  was  going,  bound  so 
that  he  could  not  move,  thumped  and  battered  by 
the  constant  pounding  of  the  toboggan  on  the 
wind-carved,  tide-disrupted  surface,  his  thoughts 
were  more  of  Joyce  than  his  own  predicament. 


124  PENITENTIARY  POST 

She  would  waken  in  the  morning  to  find  him  gone. 
She  could  not  find  a  track  on  the  hard  surface  of  the 
bay  to  indicate  what  had  happened  to  him.  It 
would  be  impossible  for  her  to  go  back  to  Lowry's 
nearest  outpost  alone.  No  one  would  come  to 
Fort  Dease  for  four  or  five  months.  She  could  not 
survive  until  then. 

There  was,  too,  the  possibility  that  the  weeteego 
might  return  and  capture  her.  What  that  would 
mean  he  could  not  even  guess,  except  that  it  would 
be  something  horrible.  He  knew  that,  at  any  risk, 
he  must  escape  and  return  to  her  or  at  least  kill 
this  monster  that  now  held  him  prisoner. 

In  the  face  of  what  might  happen  to  Joyce,  Phil 
had  no  time  to  consider  his  own  predicament  ex- 
cept from  the  angle  of  regaining  his  liberty.  With 
the  memory  of  his  fear-haunted  months  so  vividly 
fresh,  with  his  knowledge  of  the  depressing  effect 
of  the  vast  desolation  by  which  she  was  sur- 
rounded, with  the  horror  of  this  mysterious 
spectre  of  Fort  Dease  multiplied  by  its  ultimate 
success,  he  was  ready  to  cry  out  in  futile  protest 
against  the  fate  Joyce  could  not  evade.  He 
writhed  and  twisted  inside  his  tightly  lashed  bag, 
and  when  he  recognized  the  uselessness  of  it  he 
lay  still  and  cursed  until  stopped  by  a  wild,  mock- 
ing, exultant  burst  of  laughter  from  the  traces 
ahead. 

Hour  after  hour  Phil  was  dragged  across  the 
rough  surface  of  the  shore  ice.  Occasionally  there 


SOLOMON  MOSES  125 

was  a  short  stop  for  rest,  but  the  thing  ahead 
seemed  to  be  more  tireless  than  a  sledge  dog.  It 
romped  at  times  as  if  from  sheer  excess  of  spirits, 
but  not  once,  except  when  it  had  laughed,  had  it 
taken  any  notice  of  its  prisoner. 

Dawn  came  and  the  light  was  reflected  from 
under  the  skin  drawn  across  Phil's  face.  Two 
more  hours  went  by.  They  seemed  like  weeks  to 
the  prisoner.  Despite  the  thick  sack  in  which  he 
was  bound,  the  lashings  did  not  permit  circulation 
and  the  intense  cold  reached  him.  He  became 
more  and  more  cramped  and  stiff  and  in  time  the 
sluggishness  became  of  the  mind  as  well  as  of  the 
body.  The  constant  hammering  of  the  toboggan 
on  the  rough  going,  the  monotonous  jerking  and 
thumping,  combined  with  the  cold  to  bring  a 
lethargy  which  he  could  not  shake  off. 

It  was  while  Phil  was  in  this  stupor  that  the 
toboggan  finally  struck  a  smooth,  even  trail  and 
ascended  a  slight  rise.  When  he  finally  became 
conscious  that  he  was  no  longer  being  bumped  and 
mauled  on  the  shore  ice,  he  strove  to  remember 
which  way  the  toboggan  had  turned  when  it 
struck  the  land.  Unless  he  knew  there  was  no  way 
to  tell  whether  he  had  been  carried  northwest  or 
southeast  from  Fort  Dease.  And  without  that 
knowledge  he  could  never  return  should  he  escape 
from  the  weeteego.  There  would  not  be  a  markj 
on  the  packed  snow  or  ice  over  which  he  had  been' 
hauled,  and  he  might  wander  on  to  starvation, t 
all  the  time  leaving  Joyce  farther  behind  him. 


126  PENITENTIARY  POST 

While  he  was  still  cursing  himself  for  having1 
relaxed  his  vigilance,  there  was  a  sudden  shading1 
of  the  light  reflected  up  beneath  the  piece  of 
caribou  skin  that  covered  his  face.  Then  the 
toboggan  stopped  and  his  head  was  uncovered. 

The  first  thing  Phil  saw  brought  paralyzing 
amazement.  Above  him  and  all  about  him  were 
trees,  bent,  ragged  spruce  trees  thirty  feet  high 
and  six  inches  thick  at  the  butts.  As  his  stunned 
mind  accepted  them  it  accepted  also  what  they 
told  him.  There  were  no  trees  like  these  within 
one  hundred  miles  of  Fort  Dease.  He  must  have 
become  unconscious  from  the  cold  and  exhaustion, 
had  been  delirious  and  been  days  on  the  journey 
instead  of  a  few  hours.  If  he  did  regain  his  liberty 
he  could  never  find  his  way  back  to  Joyce,  could 
never  make  the  trip  without  adequate  equipment 
even  if  there  were  a  trail. 

Completely  unnerved  by  his  discovery,  Phil 
turned  his  head  listlessly  and  for  the  first  time  saw 
the  weeteego  in  daylight.  The  man  was  standing 
a  few  feet  away,  calmly  surveying  his  prisoner. 

There  was  nothing  maniacal,  nothing  malignant, 
in  the  face  Phil  saw.  It  was  that  of  an  Indian, 
with  all  the  Indian's  usual  immobility  of  feature 
and  inscrutability  of  eye.  It  told  nothing,  either 
of  friendliness  or  hostility,  of  power  or  weak- 
ness, of  madness  or  rationality. 

But  there  the  similarity  to  the  usual  type  of 
native  ceased.  Never  had  Phil  seen  an  Indian 
dressed  in  anything  except  the  manufactured 


SOLOMON  MOSES  127 

garments  furnished  by  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany. This  man  was  clothed  only  in  skins,  skins 
half  tanned  and  with  the  fur  on.  Great,  bulgy, 
shapeless  folds  of  them  enveloped  a  body  larger 
than  that  of  the  usual  native  and  gave  him  the 
appearance  of  a  huge,  hairy,  upright  animal. 
Even  the  skill  of  the  savage  in  fashioning  such 
garments  was  absent.  Their  barbarous  crude- 
ness  gave  the  impression  of  something  bestial. 

The  Indian  began  at  once  to  take  off  the  lash- 
ings that  bound  Phil  to  the  toboggan.  He 
removed  the  rope  which  he  had  wound  about  the 
bag  and  his  prisoner  stretched  and  drew  up  his 
cramped  legs  and  arms  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  That 
sigh  brought  the  first  change  of  expression  in  the 
man's  face.  To  Phil's  amazement,  he  smiled, 
a  friendly,  understanding  smile  that  said  plainly, 
"I  thought  you'd  feel  better." 

The  Indian  disappeared  and  Phil  twisted  him- 
self about  so  that  he  could  see  a  skin  wigwam 
behind  him.  He  heard  the  tiny  crackle  of  a  newly 
kindled  fire,  and  then  the  Indian  came  out  and 
carried  him  inside. 

Phil  began  to  hope  that  the  friendliness  of  the 
smile  was  to  be  extended  to  deeds  as  well,  for  the 
Indian  began  at  once  to  untie  the  mouth  of  the  bag 
at  his  feet.  But  he  had  no  sooner  slipped  it  back 
than  he  passed  a  leather  thong  tightly  about  the 
ankles.  Then  from  under  a  mass  of  skins  and  fur 
at  the  rear  of  the  wigwam  he  drew  a  piece  of  chain, 
red  and  pitted  with  rust.  For  a  moment  he 


128  PENITENTIARY  POST 

fondled  it  proudly,  triumphantly.  Then  he  began 
to  fasten  it  about  Phil's  legs  just  above  the  ankles. 
He  worked  deliberately,  yet  certainly,  as  though 
by  a  prearranged  plan.  The  links  were  small 
enough  to  permit  tying,  and  the  chain  was  long 
enough  for  a  series  of  intricate  and  clever  knots 
which  Phil  knew  never  could  be  untied. 

He  did  not  struggle  as  he  watched,  for  he  knew 
it  was  useless.  From  the  beginning  he  had  seen 
that  a  trick  alone  would  give  him  the  necessary 
opportunity  to  kill  his  captor  or  to  escape.  But 
as  he  saw  the  skilful  manner  in  which  the  Indian 
tied  the  chain  his  courage  vanished.  Only  a 
file  could  ever  free  him. 

The  chain  adjusted  to  his  satisfaction,  the 
Indian  removed  the  leather  thongs  and  pushed 
back  the  bag  until  he  could  reach  Phil's  hands. 
These  he  bound  with  thongs  to  a  leather  belt  he 
placed  about  Phil's  waist  and  then  removed  the 
bag  entirely. 

Phil  sat  up  to  be  nearer  the  fire  and  his  captor 
at  once  stretched  a  piece  of  rope  from  the  belt  at 
the  back  to  a  stake  which  was  firmly  imbedded 
in  the  frozen  ground.  Another  rope  was  run  from 
the  chain  to  another  stake  in  the  front,  and  Phil 
found  himself  able  to  sit  up,  lie  down,  or  roll  over, 
but  powerless  to  move  his  hands  more  than  six 
inches  from  his  waist  or  draw  up  his  feet  so  that  he 
could  work  at  the  chain. 

His  prisoner  tied  to  his  satisfaction,  the  Indian 
placed  more  wood  on  the  fire  and  then  went  out. 


SOLOMON  MOSES  129 

He  had  not  spoken,  had  not  given  a  sign  of  his 
intentions  or  plans,  and  Phil,  though  he  knew  the 
man  was  a  Cree,  had  made  no  attempt  to  speak  to 
him.  He  knew  that,  above  all  things,  he  must  not 
act  too  quickly,  and  that  by  waiting  and  watching 
he  could  gain  more  information  than  by  asking 
questions. 

The  whole  thing  was  a  mystery  to  the  Hudson's 
Bay  man.  He  had  spent  a  dozen  years  in  the 
North  but  never  had  he  heard  of  anything  similar 
to  the  present  situation  in  any  of  its  aspects. 
Indians  had  rebelled,  had  attacked  forts  and  killed 
servants  of  the  Company  in  the  old  days.  In  more 
recent  years,  within  Phil's  own  experience,  there 
had  been  sporadic,  isolated  instances  of  individuals 
running  amuck.  But  never  had  there  been  an  at- 
tempt to  make  a  white  man  prisoner  in  this 
amazing  fashion. 

That  the  Indian  was  the  man  he  had  come  to 
refer  to  as  the  weeteego  there  was  no  doubt. 
And  as  Phil  thought  of  the  real  meaning  of  the 
word,  he  shivered.  Had  a  weeteego  decided  to  eat 
a  white  man  instead  of  some  one  of  his  people? 
If  he  had,  there  was  absolutely  no  hope  of  escape. 
Bound  as  he  was,  Phil  knew  it  was  useless  to  try  to 
free  himself.  He  knew  the  Indian  would  maintain 
constant  vigilance  and  that  a  blow  on  the  head  or 
the  thrust  of  a  knife  would  be  the  means  of  frus- 
trating any  dash  for  liberty. 

Horrible  as  was  the  idea  of  being  eaten  by  this 
savage,  desperate  as  he  found  his  situation,  Phil 


130  PENITENTIARY  POST 

was  reassured  somewhat  by  the  apparent  sanity  of 
his  captor.  A  weeteego  is  mentally  deranged. 
This  man  appeared  to  be  entirely  normal.  And 
came  the  encouraging  thought,  if  he  had  intended 
only  to  eat  his  prisoner  he  would  not  have  taken 
the  trouble  to  capture  him  alive.  He  would  have 
killed  him  the  first  night  he  had  gained  entrance 
to  the  living  room  while  Phil  was  asleep. 

But  despite  the  apparent  sanity  of  the  Indian 
as  expressed  by  his  face  and  actions,  there  re- 
mained the  utter  lack  of  anything  else  that  was 
usual.  The  man  was  dressed  entirely  in  skins, 
poorly  tanned  or  not  tanned  at  all.  There  were  no 
dishes  for  cooking  and  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wigwam  was  a  large  piece  of  meat  that  had  been 
gnawed  when  raw  and  frozen.  The  dirt  and  filth 
were  unspeakable,  and  the  odour,  as  the  fire  warmed 
the  interior  of  the  shelter,  became  nauseating. 

Except  for  the  chain  and  piece  of  rope  with 
which  he  was  bound  and  the  trade  gun  lying  on  a 
pile  of  fur  beyond  the  fire,  there  was  not  an  evi- 
dence that  the  Indian  had  ever  seen  or  been 
associated  with  white  men.  Everything  about 
the  camp  was  utterly  primitive.  Such  a  thing  was 
unheard  of.  For  a  thousand  miles  in  every  direc- 
tion the  natives  had  known  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company  for  two  hundred  years  or  more.  They 
had  abandoned  their  skin  clothing  for  wool  and 
cotton  generations  before.  Kettles  and  various 
trade  sundries  were  indispensable. 

As  Phil  puzzled  over  this  unaccountable  fact 


SOLOMON  MOSES  131 

the  Indian  reentered  the  wigwam.  He  piled  more 
fuel  on  the  fire  and  then  began  to  gnaw  at  the 
frozen  meat.  After  a  few  bites  he  held  the  huge 
piece  in  the  flames  until  it  was  blackened  and  then 
tore  off  the  melted  part  in  great  strips. 

To  Phil  the  sight  was  not  disgusting.  On  more 
than  one  instance  he  had  been  reduced  to  fare  not 
much  better  and  he  was  very  hungry.  He  had  not 
eaten  much  the  night  before  because  of  the  ex- 
citement of  Joyce's  arrival.  It  had  been  very 
cold  and  the  spectacle  of  food  being  eaten  brought 
instant  realization  of  his  famished  condition. 

He  did  not  speak,  but  the  Indian  caught  his 
expression  and  grinned  across  the  fire  at  him.  He 
held  out  the  huge  piece  of  meat  and  then  withdrew 
it,  chuckling  as  he  saw  the  disappointment  in  his 
prisoner's  face. 

In  that  grin  and  that  chuckle  Phil  found  some- 
thing that  brought  greater  fear  than  anything  that 
had  happened  since  he  had  wakened  to  find  himself 
in  the  bag.  They  told  him  beyond  doubt  that 
the  man  was  a  maniac.  It  had  shown  for  an 
instant  in  his  eyes,  in  the  cunning  smirk,  in  the 
wild  notes  of  his  laugh.  Fascinated  by  the 
terror  of  his  predicament,  Phil  watched  the  man 
devour  pound  after  pound  of  raw  meat. 

The  man  fairly  wallowed  in  his  food.  He 
smeared  his  face  and  his  hands  and  his  fur  cloth- 
ing with  the  grease  that  oozed  from  between  the 
tissues  as  the  heat  of  the  fire  drove  out  the  frost. 
He  pulled  with  his  teeth  and  his  hands  until  great, 


132  PENITENTIARY  POST 

dripping,  red  pieces  were  torn  off.  He  crowded 
these  into  his  mouth  and  gulped  them  down  as 
does  a  dog,  without  chewing. 

The  quantity  of  food  he  consumed  was  enor- 
mous, but  the  more  he  ate  the  more  ravenous  he 
became,  the  more  insane  the  gleam  of  his  eyes  when 
he  glanced  across  the  fire  at  his  prisoner.  As  Phil 
watched,  spellbound,  he  wondered  if  the  man 
would  ever  satisfy  a  hunger  that  seemed  to  grow 
the  more  he  ate. 

The  meal  ended  only  when  the  piece  of  meat, 
which  Phil  estimated  had  weighed  all  of  ten 
pounds,  was  consumed.  The  Indian  wiped  the 
backs  of  his  black,  bloody,  hairy  hands  across  his 
face,  glared  fiercely  at  his  prisoner,  threw  himself 
back  against  the  pile  of  fur  and  skins  behind  him 
and  immediately  was  asleep. 

It  was  more  a  stupor  than  a  slumber,  as  Phil 
soon  discovered  by  experimenting  with  various 
noises  he  was  able  to  make  by  rattling  the  chain 
that  held  his  legs,  coughing  and  rolling  about. 
The  Indian  had  become  drunk  with  an  excess  of 
food,  was  the  victim  of  a  gluttonous  debauch. 

When  he  was  satisfied  that  his  captor  would  not 
wake,  Phil  began  to  test  the  thongs  and  ropes 
which  held  him.  He  strained  and  pulled  but  could 
not  gain  an  inch.  He  twisted  and  turned  his  hands 
but  he  could  not  reach  a  knot.  One  attempt 
showed  him  that  it  was  utterly  impossible  for  him 
even  to  touch  the  chain  that  held  his  feet  together. 

He    did    not    abandon    the    effort    after    the 


SOLOMON  MOSES  133 

first  trial.  So  long  as  the  light  lasted  he  con- 
tinued to  twist  and  turn,  to  tug  and  jerk.  After 
a  few  minutes  his  exertions  became  frantic,  and  he 
rolled  and  writhed  on  the  ground  in  a  spasm  of 
terror  and  desperation,  ceasing  only  when  ex- 
hausted. When  his  strength  began  to  return  he 
resolved  not  to  use  it  in  so  futile  a  fashion.  Rather 
he  became  cool  and  determined.  Systematically 
he  attempted  to  discover  some  way  to  free  himself. 
He  did  not  allow  himself  to  be  hurried  by  the  fear 
that  the  Indian  might  waken.  He  knew  it  was 
his  one  chance,  that  his  life  and  that  of  Joyce 
depended  upon  his  success. 

But  darkness  found  him  no  nearer  freedom  than 
when  he  had  begun.  For  at  least  five  hours  he  had 
had  every  opportunity  to  attempt  escape.  Yet 
each  knot  seemed  tighter  than  before,  each  thong 
as  strong. 

The  fire  had  gone  out  and  Phil  became  very 
cold.  He  was  lying  on  several  skins  and  he 
managed  to  work  one  or  two  up  and  around  him, 
but  not  sufficiently  to  keep  him  warm.  His 
hands  and  feet  were  soon  numb  and  he  suffered 
far  more  than  when  he  had  been  wrapped  in  the 
caribou-skin  bag  on  the  toboggan. 

When  he  had  abandoned  his  idea  of  freeing  him- 
self he  turned  his  attention  to  the  peculiar  facts 
connected  with  his  imprisonment.  He  remem- 
bered that  the  Indian  had  appeared  to  be  perfectly 
sane  until  he  had  begun  to  eat.  At  first  he  had 


134  PENITENTIARY  POST 

not  seemed  to  be  inordinately  hungry,  but  as  the 
meal  progressed  he  had  torn  at  the  meat  more  and 
more  savagely,  had  gulped  larger  pieces  of  it  whole, 
and  all  the  time  the  insane  light  in  his  eyes  had 
increased,  until  at  the  end  he  had  glared  at  his 
prisoner  with  blazing  ferocity.  Food  seemed 
to  have  made  the  man  mad.  Food  seemed  to 
have  aroused  a  primitive  passion. 

Repeatedly  Phil  found  himself  reviewing  all 
that  he  had  learned  about  the  people  of  his  dis- 
trict. Sandy  had  exhausted  his  store  of  gossip. 
Something  in  it  must  give  a  hint  as  to  the  identity 
of  this  man.  To  be  sure,  the  secret  of  the  weeteego 
was  solved.  But  who  had  become  the  weeteego? 
Which  of  the  few  Indians  in  the  district  had  be- 
come this  deranged  creature. 

As  Phil  searched  his  memory  he  could  not 
banish  from  his  mind  the  spectacle  of  the  Indian 
at  his  meal,  the  thought  that  through  food  alone 
had  he  seemed  to  become  a  maniac.  Perhaps 
there  lay  the  explanation.  A  winter  of  starva- 
tion, the  abandonment  of  hope,  and  then  the 
coming  of  the  caribou  and  the  resultant  frenzied 
debauch!  It  was  enough  to  weaken  a  man's 
mind,  to  make  him  a  monomaniac  on  the  subject 
of  food.  Food  was  all  men  lived  for  in  the  Far 
North.  Food  meant  everything.  Its  need  was 
constant,  imperative,  and  its  absence  was  an  un- 
ending peril. 

And  then  the  two  thoughts  coincided.  Food 
and  the  story  Sandy  had  told  of  the  Indians  who 


SOLOMON  MOSES  135 

had  starved  to  death.  Sandy  had  found  the  bodies, 
except  that  of  the  head  of  the  family,  who  had 
wandered  off,  presumably  in  a  vain  search  for  food. 

Instantly  the  entire  story  of  the  weeteego,  his 
actions,  his  life  alone  through  two  winters,  his 
strange  behaviour  and  the  terror  it  had  brought 
to  the  fort,  all  became  instantly  plain.  All  ex- 
cept his  indomitable  determination  to  make  a 
Hudson's  Bay  Company  man  prisoner.  Phil 
saw  how  the  man  had  been  driven  insane  by  the 
slow  extinction  of  his  family  and  his  own  craving 
for  food,  how  the  long,  cold,  foodless  winter  had  up- 
set his  reason  and  driven  him  out  to  wander  across 
the  marshes  like  a  wolf.  But  why  had  he  haunted 
Fort  Dease  and  why  had  he  captured  him? 

The  cold  finally  put  an  end  to  Phil's  conjectures. 
Slowly  the  numbness  crept  up  to  his  brain  and  at 
last  he  lost  consciousness. 

It  was  still  night  when  he  opened  his  eyes.  A 
bright  fire  was  burning,  his  body  was  warm  again 
but  each  muscle  seemed  a  bundle  of  shooting, 
fiery  pains.  With  difficulty  Phil  twisted  his  head 
and  looked  across  the  blaze. 

The  Indian  was  sitting  quietly  beside  the  fire. 
He  returned  Phil's  glance  calmly,  with  just  a 
suggestion  of  the  friendly  smile  of  the  day  before. 
There  was  nothing  wild  or  disordered  in  his  eyes  or 
features,  and  Phil's  hopes  rose  instantly.  The 
man  was  a  monomaniac  on  the  subject  of  food. 
If  he  could  catch  him  in  a  sane  moment  he  might 
gain  the  advantage. 


136  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"Wotcher,"  Phil  said  calmly,  employing  the 
common  method  of  greeting. 

The  Indian  looked  up  quickly,  a  new  light  in  his 
eyes,  something  as  a  sailor  might  have  done  had  he 
been  long  absent  from  the  familiar  sounds  of  the  sea. 

"  Solomon  Moses,"  Phil  exclaimed,  sharply. 

"Yes,"  was  the  slow  answer  in  Cree. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Solomon  Moses?" 

"I  am  dead,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"How  long  have  you  been  dead?" 

"This  is  the  second  winter." 

"Why  do  you  tie  the  hands  and  feet  of  the  man 
who  has  never  harmed  you?" 

Again  the  maniacal  light  flashed  in  the  Indian's 
eyes,  and  Phil  shivered  as  he  saw  it.  But  when 
Solomon  Moses  spoke  he  was  as  calm  and  as  sane  as 
his  hearer,  though  he  sometimes  faltered  in  choos- 
ing a  word,  as  if  speaking  were  an  unfamiliar  task. 

"Two  years  ago  I  take  my  family  out  for  the 
hunt  as  I  always  do,  in  the  same  place  where  I 
have  always  gone,  and  where  my  father  and  his 
father  hunted.  The  Hudson's  Bay  Company  has 
always  known  where  I  hunt.  In  the  early  winter 
the  caribou  do  not  come.  I  wait  and  wait, 
for  they  always  have  come,  and  all  our  fish  is  gone. 
My  wife  and  I  set  snares  for  the  rabbits,  but  there 
are  only  a  few.  Neither  are  there  many  ptarmi- 
gan. The  dogs  die  because  there  is  nothing  for 
them  to  eat.  The  little  ones  are  crying  for  food 
and  I  say  to  my  wife:  'I  will  go  out  and  find  the 
caribou.  In  ten  days  I  will  come  back.* 


SOLOMON  MOSES  137 

"But  I  do  not  find  the  caribou  and  when  I 
come  back  in  two  weeks  my  wife  is  so  weak  she 
can  not  set  snares.  I  am  very  weak,  but  I  set 
some  snares  and  catch  two  rabbits  and  leave  them 
with  my  wife  and  the  three  children  and  go  out 
again  and  look  for  the  caribou.  I  find  the  trail  of 
an  Indian  hunter  and  follow  it  until  I  come  to 
his  camp.  He  has  a  little  meat  and  he  is  going  to 
the  fort  and  he  says  he  will  tell  them  there  that  I 
and  my  family  are  starving  and  I  have  no  dogs  and 
can  not  come  in  for  food.  He  promised  me  that 
and  I  saw  him  go. 

"I  took  what  little  meat  he  could  let  me  have 
and  went  to  my  camp.  My  wife  could  not  lift  her 
head,  and  I  gave  her  the  meat  for  her  and  the 
children  and  went  out  again  to  look  for  the  cari- 
bou. I  was  very  weak  but  some  days  I  would  kill 
a  ptarmigan. 

"At  last  I  get  back  to  my  camp.  I  do  not  find 
caribou,  and  I  am  very  weak.  My  wife  is  lying 
in  the  cold  wigwam,  with  no  fire  for  she  is  too  weak 
to  get  wood,  and  beside  her  two  of  the  children  are 
lying  dead  and  the  last  one  is  dying.  When  my 
wife  doesn't  see  I  take  one  of  the  children  out  and 
cut  off  some  meat  from  its  legs  and  take  it  in  and 
put  it  in  the  pot  and  make  a  soup  and  feed  her, 
and  then  I  go  out  again  and  look  for  the  caribou. 

"That  week  I  find  two  ptarmigan.  The  next 
week  I  find  a  rabbit.  Then  I  go  home,  and  my  camp 
is  still,  and  my  wife  and  the  last  child  are  dead. 
And  the  Company  has  not  come  with  food." 


138  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Solomon  Moses  had  spoken  quietly,  dispassion- 
ately, but  his  story  had  been  so  vivid  that  the 
pathos  of  it  made  Phil  forget  for  the  moment  his 
own  danger.  He  had  only  pity  for  the  savage  that 
sat  across  the  fire  from  him. 

But  when  Solomon  Moses  spoke  again  his  voice 
had  changed,  and  the  wild  light  was  in  his  eyes. 

"I  turn  and  leave  them  there  because  I  have  not 
the  strength  to  put  them  out  of  the  way  of  the 
wolves,"  he  said.  "I  go  out  until  I  can  not  walk, 
and  I  lie  down  in  the  snow  and  die.  And  then  my 
spirit  sees  a  caribou,  and  another,  and  more  and 
more,  and  I  am  in  the  middle  of  the  herd,  and 
my  spirit  kills  many  of  them  and  feasts  and  grows 
fat.  And  when  I  have  grown  fat  with  the  meat  I 
remember  my  wife  and  children  and  I  say: 

"They  are  dead,  dead  because  the  Company 
did  not  send  food  when  it  was  told  they  were 
starving  and  that  I  had  no  dogs  to  go  to  the  fort. 
It  is  the  Company  that  killed  them,  and  it  is  the 
Company  that  must  pay.  I  will  go  to  Fort  Dease, 
and  I  will  take  the  man  there  and  carry  him  off 
and  tie  him  up  where  no  one  can  find  him  and 
where  he  can  never  get  away,  and  I  will  keep  him 
there  and  watch  the  hunger  come  and  tear  him. 
I  will  sit  beside  him  and  eat,  and  I  will  never  give 
him  any,  and  when  he  asks  for  meat  I  will  laugh. 
After  a  while  he  will  be  like  my  wife  and  children 
when  I  find  them  in  my  camp,  cold  and  hard  and 
white  like  the  pieces  of  ice  that  stick  up  on  the 
shore  of  the  salt  water." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   SPLINTERED   BONE 

THE  effect  of  Solomon  Moses'  story  upon 
Phil  was  paralyzing  because  of  the  very 
horror   and   hopelessness  of  his  position. 
Unable  to  escape,  watched  by  a  cunning,  half- 
crazed   savage,   already   suffering   from   exposure 
and  hunger  and  his  nerves  shaken  by  the  trying 
ordeal  of  the  long  winter,  he  was  ill-prepared  to 
meet  a  desperate  situation. 

The  grim  motive  back  of  his  captor's  actions, 
the  passion  of  the  primitive  man  for  revenge,  the 
cunning  with  which  his  project  had  been  carried 
out,  the  indomitable  patience  that  had  carried  him 
past  every  failure  and  through  two  long  winters, 
each  in  itself  was  enough  to  cause  complete  des- 
pair. 

But,  critical  as  was  his  position,  after  the  first 
quick  panic  Phil's  courage  returned.  At  last  he 
knew  the  danger  he  faced.  At  last  there  was  no 
mystery,  nothing  spectral,  nothing  suggestive  of 
the  supernatural.  There  was  no  longer  an  un- 
known to  dread,  no  longer  any  uncertainty.  For 
the  first  time  since  he  had  seen  the  prints  of  bare 
feet  in  the  mud  the  previous  Fall,  weirdness, 
stealth,  suspense  and  nameless  hazard  were  absent, 

139 


i4o  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Everything  was  out  in  the  open,  plain,  understand- 
able. The  very  reality  of  his  danger  served  to  give 
Phil  a  cool,  clear  brain,  even  a  slight  assurance. 

Then,  too,  he  grasped  the  situation  as  a  whole. 
He  saw  that  it  was  not  only  his  safety,  his  life. 
His  vision  clear  of  dread  and  mystery,  he  saw  that 
upon  him  alone  depended  the  safety  of  Joyce  and 
the  success  of  the  territory  of  which  he  was  in 
charge.  He  must  escape  and  protect  her  and  he 
must  round  up  the  hunters  before  they  went  to  the 
opposition  down  the  bay. 

Phil  did  not  waste  any  time.  Twelve  years  of 
close  contact  with  the  natives  had  given  him  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  Indian  psychology,  a  com- 
plete understanding  of  the  Indian  character.  He 
did  not  undervalue  the  red  man's  ability,  as  many 
white  men  are  prone  to  do,  nor  did  he  allow  roman- 
tic misconceptions  to  overrate  it. 

To  Phil  the  Indian  was  what  he  really  is,  a 
child,  with  all  a  child's  fears,  all  a  child's  lack  of 
control  of  primitive  passions.  To  Phil,  too,  he 
was  the  child  accustomed  through  generations  to 
accepting  the  advice  and  guidance  of  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company,  even  to  submitting  to  its  repri- 
mands. 

He  did  not  believe  that  Solomon  Moses  was  in- 
sane except  possibly  on  the  one  subject  of  food. 
An  Indian  can  make  himself  believe  many  things, 
can  bring  about  a  state  of  mind  that  borders  upon 
or  gives  the  impression  of  insanity,  a  condition 
from  which  he  can  be  jolted  back  to  the  normal. 


THE  SPLINTERED  BONE  141 

"Look  here,"  snapped  Phil  in  Cree,  "you 
can't  do  this,  Solomon  Moses.  You'll  get  caught. 
You'll  be  hung.  The  police  and  the  Company 
men  will  come,  and  there  will  be  an  end  of  you." 

"There  is  no  one  to  come." 

"There  is.  A  dog  team  just  came  to  Fort 
Dease,  driven  by  an  Indian,  and  he  said  four  teams 
with  white  men  were  only  a  day  behind  them. 
They  will  track  you  to  this  place  and  take  you." 

"But  they  can  not  take  a  spirit.      I  am  dead." 

"You  know  you  are  not  dead.  You  only  try  to 
think  you  are.  If  you  are  dead,  put  your  hand 
in  the  fire  there  and  see  if  it  will  burn." 

The  Indian  did  not  reply  and  his  eyes  wavered 
as  had  many  a  hunter's  when  Phil  lectured  him  on 
laziness  or  extravagance  or  failure  to  pay  his  debt. 
It  was  the  first  point  in  Phil's  favour  and  con- 
sciously now  he  continued  the  role  he  had  naturally 
assumed,  that  of  father  of  his  flock. 

"You  can't  fool  me,  Solomon  Moses,"  he  ex- 
claimed, confidently.  "You  went  out  and  found 
the  caribou  and  killed  and  ate.  You  did  not  die. 
You  only  tried  to  think  you  were  dead.  You 
have  lived  alone  ever  since  and  have  not  gone 
among  your  people  and  your  brain  has  become 
soft  and  you  do  foolish  things.  A  little  boy 
would  know  that  he  can  not  kill  a  white  man, 
especially  a  Company  man,  and  live." 

The  Indian  had  lapsed  into  the  sullen,  silent 
mood  characteristic  of  his  people  when  criticized. 
It  is  not  unlike  that  of  a  spoiled  child,  and  though 


142  PENITENTIARY  POST 

it  gives  the  impression  of  hopeless  perversity,  it  did 
not  deceive  Phil. 

"Those  white  men  and  the  Indians  are  looking 
for  me  now,"  he  continued.  "The  Indians  are 
with  them  to  track  you  and  the  toboggan.  They 
will  surely  come  before  I  starve  to  death,  and  when 
I  tell  them  what  you  have  done  they  will  find  you 
or  the  policemen  will  come  from  the  West.  You 
know  that  they  never  fail." 

Solomon  Moses  did  not  look  up  from  the  fire, 
did  not  indicate  that  he  had  heard. 

"Come,"  Phil  commanded.  "Take  off  these 
thongs.  Take  them  off  and  give  me  something  to 
eat  and  something  to  keep  out  the  cold." 

There  was  a  slight,  uneasy  shifting  of  the  Indian's 
position  and  Phil  immediately  pressed  hisadvantage. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "you  were  a  good  hunter 
and  you  would  like  to  return  to  the  hunt  and  get 
debt  from  the  Company.  You  have  not  gone 
back  because  you  have  a  debt  and  no  furs  to  pay. 
The  Company  is  not  angry  because  of  what  you 
have  done.  The  Company  knows  you  had  a  bad 
spirit  and  that  it  made  you  do  things  you  did  not 
want  to  do.  Take  off  these  thongs  and  go  back 
to  the  fort  with  me  and  I  will  give  you  a  fresh  debt 
and  I  will  tear  out  of  the  book  the  page  which 
shows  your  old  debt.  If  any  one  asks  where  you 
have  been,  or  what  you  have  done,  I  will  tell  them 
that  an  evil  spirit  captured  you  and  took  you  off 
and  that  I  went  after  you  and  killed  the  bad  spirit 
and  brought  you  back  with  me. 


THE  SPLINTERED  BONE  143 

"You  can  go  to  the  fort  and  get  a  new  gun 
and  a  new  knife,  and  blankets  and  tea  and  sugar 
and  clothes  so  that  you  will  be  warm  and  dry  and 
have  a  full  belly  and  smoke  a  pipe  again.  And 
you  can  see  the  other  Indians  at  the  fort  and 
laugh  and  talk  with  them  and  have  a  good  time, 
and  find  a  new  squaw  and  have  a  camp  and  more 
children." 

Solomon  Moses  jumped  to  his  feet,  his  eyes 
blazing,  his  face  distorted  with  rage.  Phil  saw 
his  mistake  instantly.  His  eloquence  had  carried 
him  too  far.  He  had  touched  the  two  things  that 
routed  his  captor's  sanity. 

"I  had  a  good  squaw!"  the  Indian  cried,  fiercely. 
"I  had  a  camp  and  fine  children.  I  had  tea  and 
sugar  and  a  new  gun  and  tobacco.  And  the 
Company  killed  my  squaw  and  my  children  and 
took  everything  from  me,  and  the  Company  will 
pay.  You  will  starve." 

As  he  danced  in  anger  beside  the  fire  his  head 
struck  a  piece  of  meat  that  hung  from  one  of  the 
poles.  He  glanced  up  at  it.  In  that  moment  his 
frenzy  vanished  to  leave  him  in  the  grip  of  another 
passion.  He  grasped  the  meat  hungrily,  though 
he  had  just  awakened  from  the  sleep  induced 
by  his  last  gorge,  and  began  to  devour  it  as 
if  he  were  starving. 

Phil  was  fascinated  by  the  spectacle.  The  man 
appeared  to  be  famished,  and  he  tore  and  gulped 
great  strips  and  chunks  of  meat.  That  stoicism 
which  only  the  Indian  can  assume  was  gone.  The 


144  PENITENTIARY  POST 

wild  light  of  the  day  before  reappeared  in  his  eyes. 
His  features  became  bestial.  He  was  insane  with 
the  fear  of  hunger. 

Phil  sank  back  hopelessly.  Arguments  would 
be  worthless  now.  The  man  had  been  unbalanced 
by  his  experience  of  two  years  before  and  never 
could  be  counted  upon  so  long  as  the  sight  or 
mention  of  food  would  upset  his  mind  in  this 
fashion.  The  prestige  of  the  Company,  the 
superior  mental  power  of  a  white  man,  could  not 
avail  against  an  irrational  passion. 

The  meat  devoured,  Solomon  Moses  dropped 
on  to  the  pile  of  skins  and  furs  and  was  instantly 
asleep.  As  Phil  looked  at  the  black  grease- 
smeared  face,  the  great,  hairy,  paw-like  hands, 
the  primitive  clothing  of  half-tanned  pelts,  he  was 
seized  with  sudden  anger  at  the  thought  of  being 
in  the  power  of  such  a  creature.  He,  an  intelli- 
gent white  man  with  a  trained  mind  and  controlled 
passions,  the  plaything  of  this  savage,  hare- 
brained brute!  In  sudden  exasperation  and  revolt 
he  turned  and  twisted  and  tugged  at  his  bonds. 

His  struggle  ceased  almost  immediately  when  he 
realized  that  he  was  only  reducing  himself  to  the 
untamed  level  of  Solomon  Moses.  If  he  had  this 
vaunted  superiority,  the  gift  of  civilization,  why 
not  make  it  effective?  Why  should  not  his 
superior  mentality  prevail  over  what  was  only 
brute  cunning? 

He  sat  up  to  be  nearer  the  slowly  dying  fire 
and  began  to  go  over  the  situation  point  by  point. 


THE  SPLINTERED  BONE  145 

While  the  Indian  lay  in  a  stupor  he  must  free  him- 
self from  the  thongs  and  the  chain.  It  was  a  long 
time  since  he  had  eaten.  He  could  live  for  many 
days  without  food  but  another  freezing  such  as  he 
had  suffered  while  the  Indian  was  asleep  before 
and  his  strength  might  be  depleted  to  the  point 
where  freedom  from  his  bonds  would  be  only  a 
mockery. 

But  try  and  scheme  as  he  did,  Phil  was  unable  to 
loosen  a  knot.  He  could  not  reach  one  with  his 
fingers,  and  there  was  no  rough  surface  of  any  kind 
near  him  against  which  he  could  wear  the  strips  of 
leather.  And  always  he  was  confronted  with  the 
knowledge  that,  once  his  hands  were  free,  he 
still  had  the  problem  of  his  chain-bound  ankles. 
He  could  not  walk  with  his  feet  tied  so  closely 
together,  and  he  did  not  believe  he  could  ever 
unloosen  the  tangled  knots. 

Still,  only  through  freeing  his  hands  was  there 
any  hope.  He  twisted  on  to  his  side  until  he 
could  reach  the  belt  about  his  body  with  the  fore- 
finger of  his  right  hand.  It  was  only  a  leather 
thong,  an  inch  wide,  and  be  began  to  scratch  and 
scratch.  If  he  could  wear  it  through  he  could  get 
his  hands  together  and  the  knots  that  held  them 
would  be  easy. 

The  fire  went  out  and  the  cold  was  intense. 
His  hands  became  numb,  and  he  shivered  uncon- 
trollably. In  one  of  these  spasms  he  dug  against 
the  tight  strap  with  his  nail  and  broke  it  off 


146  PENITENTIARY  POST 

in  the  quick.  Immediately  Phil  turned  over  to 
make  the  same  attempt  with  his  other  forefinger. 
But  there  the  thong  was  a  little  shorter  and  he 
could  not  reach. 

He  bent  his  head  in  a  vain  effort  to  reach  the 
belt  with  his  teeth.  He  thrust  aside  all  the  skins 
upon  which  he  lay,  thinking  he  could  wear  through 
the  belt  by  rubbing  it  against  the  frozen  ground. 
But  the  strap  had  been  tied  tightly  so  that  it  was 
protected  by  his  thick  clothing  and  he  could 
not  touch  it  to  the  earth. 

By  the  time  Phil  had  abandoned  this  effort 
he  was  so  numb  with  cold  he  was  unable  to  do  any- 
thing more.  As  best  he  could  he  scraped  the 
skins  back  beneath  him  and  drew  others  over  him. 
Shivering,  numbed,  half  conscious,  he  saw  the 
dawn  of  the  second  day  come,  but  before  it  was 
full  daylight  he  had  succumbed. 

Again  Phil  was  wakened  by  the  shooting, 
twitching  pains  of  warming  muscles.  He  opened 
his  eyes  to  see  Solomon  Moses  once  more  sitting 
on  the  other  side  of  a  roaring  fire.  Only  this  time 
there  was  no  friendly  little  smile  for  the  prisoner. 
Instead,  the  man  seemed  not  to  have  recovered 
from  his  mania.  He  glared  through  the  smoke  at 
his  prisoner  and  when  he  saw  Phil's  painful  move- 
ments he  laughed  wildly. 

"My  squaw  lay  in  the  wigwam  without  a  fire," 
he  chuckled.  "She  was  too  weak  to  go  out  for 
wood,  and  the  children  were  beside  her,  dying  of 
the  cold  and  the  hunger." 


THE  SPLINTERED  BONE  147 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  picked  up  a  piece  of  meat 
and  held  it  temptingly  a  few  inches  from  Phil's 
mouth.  He  took  a  knife  from  the  mass  of  skins 
behind  him  and  made  a  motion  as  if  to  sever  his 
prisoner's  bonds.  When  he  saw  the  sudden  gleam 
in  Phil's  eyes  aroused  by  the  sight  of  a  cutting  in- 
strument he  thrust  it  into  the  ground  on  his  side 
of  the  fire,  out  of  the  white  man's  reach,  but  where 
he  could  always  see  it. 

The  spirit  of  torture  aroused,  he  took  small 
pieces  of  meat  and  hung  them  from  the  wigwam- 
poles  above  Phil's  head  and  high  enough  so  that 
there  was  no  possibility  of  his  ever  reaching  them. 
He  set  another  piece  beside  the  knife  and  so  close 
to  the  fire  it  began  to  crinkle  and  sizzle  in  the  heat, 
filling  the  wigwam  with  an  odour  that  was  madden- 
ing to  Phil.  He  could  not  help  but  sniff  hungrily, 
and  Solomon  saw  him  and  grinned  delightedly. 

The  Indian  began  at  once  a  search  for  more 
meat.  He  tumbled  back  the  pile  of  skins,  rolling 
pieces  of  bone  on  the  ground  beside  the  fire.  He 
pawed  these  over,  ribs,  shoulder-blades,  long 
thigh-bones,  some  of  them  cracked  and  splintered. 
But  he  did  not  find  more  meat.  He  stood  up, 
looked  around  the  wigwam  and  then  at  his 
prisoner. 

"The  caribou  do  not  come,"  he  said,  vacantly. 
"I  will  go  out  and  find  them.  In  ten  days  I 
will  return." 

"No!"  cried  Phil,  involuntarily.  "I'll  freeze 
to  death!" 


148  PENITENTIARY  POST 

It  seemed  to  arouse  Solomon  from  his  sudden 
trance,  but  the  demoniacal  glitter  was  still  in  his 
eyes  when  he  said : 

"No,  you  will  not  freeze.  I  will  return  to  build 
up  the  fire  before  the  cold  reaches  your  heart. 
It  is  not  the  cold  but  the  hunger  that  will  tear  out 
your  heart  and  leave  you  like  the  pieces  of  ice  on 
the  shore  of  the  sea.  You  will  starve  but  I  must 
eat.  I  must  have  much  meat.  There  is  plenty 
at  my  other  camp,  and  I  will  go  for  it.  It  is 
far,  but  I  will  be  back  before  the  cold  reaches  your 
heart.  And  while  I  am  going  I  will  leave  these  to 
keep  you  company,"  and  he  pointed  at  the  small 
swinging  pieces  of  meat  and  at  the  knife  thrust 
into  the  ground  beside  the  fire. 

For  an  instant  he  seemed  to  be  gauging  Phil's 
bonds  and  the  distance  from  the  knife.  Then  he 
laughed. 

"Maybe  you  can  get  the  knife,"  he  said.  "I 
will  let  you  try.  But  even  if  you  did,"  and  he 
pointed  to  the  chain  and  chuckled,  proudly,  "I 
found  the  white  man's  leather  and  it  can  not  be 
broken.  With  it  on  you  can  not  go  far." 

He  went  out  and  Phil  heard  him  take  his  tobog- 
gan from  where  it  hung  in  a  tree.  He  heard  the 
crunch  of  his  snowshoes  as  Solomon  hurried  away, 
and  in  a  few  moments  there  was  no  sound  except 
the  occasional  crackling  of  the  dying  fire. 

For  a  long  time  Phil  lay  there,  slowly  working 
his  legs  and  arms  until  the  sharp  pains  began  to 
diminish  and  he  had  better  use  of  his  muscles. 


THE  SPLINTERED  BONE  149 

He  was  weak  from  exposure  and  hunger,  yet  his 
spirit  had  been  fired  by  the  absence  of  the  crazed 
Solomon,  while  the  sight  of  the  knife  was  inspiring 
rather  than  tantalizing.  It  was  out  of  his  reach, 
and  yet  he  knew  that  he  must  get  it,  that  ulti- 
mately he  would,  and  he  began  to  plan. 

Phil  saw  at  once  that  he  would  have  to  wait  until 
the  fire  had  burned  out  and  no  coals  were  left. 
The  knife  was  directly  across  the  blaze.  It  ap- 
peared to  be  hopelessly  beyond  reach,  but  there 
was  the  possibility  that,  by  tugging  and  turning, 
he  could  reach  it  with  his  mouth.  His  body 
was  not  restrained  from  the  waist  up,  and  he 
need  only  fall  across  the  fire  to  bring  his  face  close 
to  the  blade. 

Impatiently  he  watched  the  flame  die  down,  saw 
the  bright  embers  turn  to  gray  and  crumble.  The 
cold  was  still  intense  but  he  did  not  feel  it.  He 
tried  to  be  calm  and  yet  every  little  while  he  cursed 
the  coals  that  still  glowed  between  him  and  the 
knife. 

Then,  struck  with  a  sudden  idea,  he  turned 
quickly  on  his  side,  caught  up  a  piece  of  untanned 
caribou  hide  with  his  teeth,  and  with  a  jerk  of  his 
head  flung  it  over  the  fire.  Exultantly  he  sat  up, 
worked  over  as  near  to  the  knife  as  possible,  and 
then  threw  himself  out  toward  it. 

Instantly  the  door  of  the  wigwam  was  darkened, 
the  low  shelter  shook  with  peals  of  demoniacal 
laughter,  and  a  black,  hairy  hand  snatched  the 
blade  past  Phil's  nose.  Again  there  was  a  wild 


ISO  PENITENTIARY  POST 

laugh  and  Phil  saw  Solomon  Moses  running  out 
of  the  wigwam  waving  the  knife  above  his  head  and 
shrieking  like  a  fiend. 

With  difficulty  Phil  drew  himself  back  from  the 
smoking  hide  and  lay  listening  to  the  Indian  as  he 
went  farther  and  farther  away.  At  last  there  was 
silence,  and  then  from  a  distance  came  the  old 
familiar  howl  that  had  made  many  a  night  hideous 
at  Fort  Dease.  After  a  minute  it  came  again, 
still  more  distant.  The  man  really  was  going 
away.  In  his  absence  there  was  still  a  chance  to 
escape. 

Phil  looked  at  the  hole  the  blade  had  made  in  the 
ground,  cursing  because  it  was  not  still  there.  It 
had  been  almost  within  his  grasp.  Solomon  Moses 
could  not  have  thought  of  a  greater  act  of  torture 
than  the  one  he  had  just  perpetrated. 

And  then  Phil  saw  something  that  brought  him 
up  to  a  sitting  position  with  a  jerk.  Beside  where 
the  knife  had  been  thrust  into  the  ground  was  a 
long,  sharp  splinter  of  the  thigh-bone  of  a  caribou. 
With  it  any  piece  of  leather  could  be  sawed 
through.  With  it  he  could  free  himself  in  five 
minutes. 

Recklessly  he  threw  himself  out  on  to  the 
burning  hide  over  the  coals,  stretched  his  head  as 
far  as  he  could  and  opened  his  mouth.  The  bone 
was  two  inches  beyond. 

He  crawled  back  and  threw  himself  out  again, 
extending  his  body  to  the  utmost,  only  to  have  his 
lips  still  an  inch  from  the  sliver  of  bone.  Again 


THE  SPLINTERED  BONE  151 

and  again  he  tried  it,  until  at  last  he  was  so  ex- 
hausted he  could  not  come  within  three  inches. 

For  a  time  he  rested.  Then  he  began  to  exper- 
iment with  different  positions.  He  worked  slowly 
now,  and  carefully,  but  not  once  was  he  able  to 
better  his  second  attempt.  An  inch  still  inter- 
vened between  his  lips  and  the  bone. 

As  Phil  lay  resting  from  his  exertions,  studying 
the  piece  of  bone  that  had  so  accidentally  tumbled 
to  its  aggravating  position,  the  cold  struck  in  and 
he  shivered.  Without  the  bone  he  could  not  get 
free.  And  if  he  did  not  liberate  himself  before 
Solomon's  return  there  was  no  hope.  As  he  lay 
there  panting,  the  steam  arose  from  his  nose  and 
mouth  in  regular  puffs.  Phil  watched  it  absently 
and  then  suddenly  sat  upright.  He  stared  at  the 
bone  for  an  instant  and  then  with  a  contented  smile 
lay  down  and  covered  himself  as  best  he  could 
with  the  skins  behind  him. 

Quite  patiently  he  waited  an  hour  and  then 
another,  until  the  bitter  cold  had  completely 
chilled  everything  in  the  wigwam.  At  last,  stiff 
and  numb,  he  sat  up,  worked  over  toward  the  fire 
as  far  as  he  could,  threw  himself  across  the  now 
dead  ashes,  craned  his  neck  to  the  limit,  and  then 
deliberately  thrust  out  his  tongue  until  the  tip 
touched  the  cold  bone.  After  holding  it  there  for 
several  seconds  be  began  to  draw  it  in.  Slowly 
the  bone  followed  until  with  a  hungry  snap  Phil 
caught  it  between  his  teeth. 

There  was  a  sharp  pain  in  his  tongue  as  the  skin 


152  PENITENTIARY  POST 

which  had  been  frozen  to  the  bone  was  wrenched 
loose,  but  he  only  grinned  and  bent  his  head  until 
his  right  hand  had  clasped  the  splinter.  In  less 
than  two  minutes  the  thongs  had  been  cut  and  he 
was  standing  up,  bound  only  by  the  chain  about 
his  ankles. 


CHAPTER  XII 

PHIL   REFUSES   HELP 

PHIL  had  some  matches  in  a  trousers  pocket 
and  his  first  act  was  to  start  a  fire.     There 
were  only  a  few  sticks  of  wood  in  the  wig- 
wam, but  he  warmed  himself  as  best  he  could  with 
these  and  then  began  to  examine  the  chain  that 
bound  his  ankles  together. 

As  he  had  expected,  the  knots  were  hopeless. 
The  peculiar  shape  and  size  of  the  links  lent  them- 
selves to  quick  bends  and  an  inextricable  tangle. 
The  metal  chilled  his  fingers  until  they  were  numb 
and  useless.  And  then  luck  came  to  his  aid. 

Phil  knew  that  the  bit  of  a  steel  axe  would  break 
in  cold  weather  on  striking  a  hard  knot.  He  did 
not  know  that  most  chain  is  made  of  wrought  iron, 
not  steel.  This  particular  bit  of  chain,  which 
Solomon  Moses  had  picked  up  one  night  at  Fort 
Dease,  happened  to  be  steel.  Phil  did  not  know 
this,  and  he  was  too  ignorant  of  metals  to  find  out. 
But  there  were  several  rocks  inside  the  wigwam, 
loosened  from  the  soil  by  the  fire,  and  in  a  moment 
he  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  one  stone  between  his 
ankles  and  beneath  the  chain,  and  the  other  poised 
in  both  hands  above  it.  He  brought  it  down  once 
over  a  link  and  shattered  it  into  three  pieces. 

153 


154  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Phil  kicked  his  feet  far  apart  with  a  shout  of 
triumph. 

In  five  minutes  he  had  selected  a  pair  of  worn 
fur  mittens  and  a  long  skin  coat  from  the  mass  of 
half-tanned  pelts  on  which  Solomon  Moses  had 
slept,  had  set  a  piece  of  meat  near  the  fire  to  thaw, 
and  had  made  a  pack  of  all  the  available  skins  that 
would  serve  as  a  sleeping-robe.  In  the  centre  of 
the  pack  he  placed  the  few  small  pieces  of  frozen 
caribou  flesh  that  the  Indian  had  hung  about  the 
wigwam  to  tantalize  his  prisoner. 

Alternately  gnawing  and  tearing  at  the  melted 
sides  and  placing  the  meat  near  the  fire  to  thaw 
again,  Phil  managed  to  consume  between  three  or 
four  pounds  in  half  an  hour.  Then  he  swung  the 
pack  over  one  shoulder  and  left  the  wigwam. 

Two  trails  led  from  the  door.  He  knew  he  had 
been  brought  in  on  that  from  the  left.  He  knew 
that  Solomon  Moses  had  departed  on  the  other. 
There  was  no  chance  for  a  mistake  and  at  once  he 
started  off  on  the  trail  to  the  left. 

But  as  he  walked  on  beneath  the  small  spruce  his 
courage  began  to  fail.  He  was  sure  that  he  was  mo  re 
than  one  hundred  miles  from  Fort  Dease.  Other- 
wise there  could  be  no  timber.  With  the  chain 
clanking  about  his  ankles,  with  his  meagre  supply 
of  meat,  without  snowshoes  if  a  storm  should 
come,  without  any  knowledge  of  where  he  was,  the 
situation  was  desperate.  The  extreme  exaltation 
aroused  by  regaining  his  liberty  was  too  great, 
however,  to  permit  Phil  to  remain  disheartened. 


PHIL  REFUSES  HELP  ,155 

"It's  make  it  or  starve,"  he  said  aloud,  and  then 
he  added,  confidently — "And  if  it  doesn't  snow  to 
cover  up  the  trail  I'll  make  it." 

He  walked  on  rapidly,  for  his  circulation  was 
still  sluggish,  but  one  hundred  yards  from  the 
wigwam  he  halted  in  amazement.  He  was  out  of 
the  forest,  out  on  the  big  barren  waste  that  bord- 
ered the  bay,  and  less  than  a  mile  in  front  of  him 
was  the  shore  of  the  inland  sea  itself. 

"I  thought  it  was  funny  that  Indian  could  have 
dragged  me  a  hundred  miles  when  I  figured  it  was 
no  more  than  thirty!"  he  exclaimed  aloud.  "But 
what  on  earth  are  trees  doing  down  here?" 

He  went  on  and  after  a  quarter  of  a  mile  looked 
back  to  see  that  he  had  been  held  prisoner  in  a 
small  patch  of  stunted  spruce  that  had  the  ap- 
pearance of  an  island  in  the  vast,  white  desert. 

"Probably  was  an  island  in  the  bay  when  the 
shore  was  a  hundred  miles  farther  back,"  Phil 
thought  as  he  started  on.  "And  it's  probably  a 
few  million  years  older  than  the  land  around  it." 

As  he  approached  the  shore  he  realized  that  a 
serious  problem  must  be  solved  at  once.  When 
Solomon  Moses  had  spun  the  toboggan  around  and 
around  and  had  covered  Phil's  face  with  a  piece  of 
leather,  he  had  made  it  impossible  for  his  prisoner 
to  know  whether  he  had  been  carried  southeast  or 
northwest  from  Fort  Dease.  It  was  equally  im- 
possible for  Phil  to  know  now  whether  he  was 
northwest  or  southeast  of  the  fort.  He  knew  the 
ice  on  the  bay,  or  the  snow  where  it  had  not  been 


156  PENITENTIARY  POST 

swept  off  by  the  wind,  would  not  show  a  mark  of 
the  toboggan. 

"It's  an  even  chance  either  way,"  he  thought  as 
he  struck  the  shore  ice  and  looked  first  one  way 
and  then  the  other.  "  I  suppose  I'm  lucky  to  have 
the  possibilities  equal." 

In  the  old  days  he  would  have  started  off"  at 
once,  gladly  availing  himself  of  a  situation  of  even 
chances.  Now  the  thought  of  Joyce  alone  at  Fort 
Dease  made  him  hesitate  and  brought  an  end 
to  his  exhilaration.  He  must  not  take  even  a  half 
chance  in  the  matter.  To  reach  and  protect 
Joyce,  to  save  Fort  Dease  to  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company,  he  must  be  absolutely  certain. 

Standing  there,  he  studied  the  situation.  Not  a 
factor  which  might  help  him  to  determine  direc- 
tions was  forgotten.  He  reviewed  everything 
that  had  happened  since  Solomon  Moses  had  first 
left  the  prints  of  his  bare  feet  in  the  mud  the  pre- 
vious fall.  He  recalled  everything  he  had  heard 
about  the  Indian,  all  Sandy  had  told  him  and  all 
that  he  knew  of  the  district.  He  analyzed  each 
of  the  cunning  tricks  Solomon  had  employed,  de- 
ducted the  entire  life  of  the  monomaniac  in  the 
last  two  years. 

At  the  end  two  things  were  fixed  in  his  mind. 
The  weeteego  had  always  howled  from  the  marshes 
off  the  south  of  Fort  Dease.  The  weird  wails  had 
grown  faint  always  in  that  same  direction.  But 
Solomon  had  always  been  careful  to  come  only 
when  a  storm  would  cover  his  tracks.  He  had 


PHIL  REFUSES  HELP  157 

never  overlooked  anything  to  keep  his  identity 
and  his  whereabouts  a  secret.  Therefore,  his 
leaving  always  in  the  one  direction  was  a  blind. 

Secondly,  before  Solomon's  family  had  been 
wiped  out  by  starvation  he  had  hunted  near  Berens 
River.  It  had  been  his  father's  hunting  territory. 
Naturally,  he  would  remain  there,  for  no  one  would 
suspect  his  presence  in  it,  and  no  one  would  ever 
cross  it.  Further,  he  would  have  to  live  in  the 
timber  country  far  to  the  south  or  west  to  get  food. 
The  camp  in  the  island  of  spruce  was  only  a  tem- 
porary refuge  from  which  he  had  carried  on  his 
operations  against  Fort  Dease.  The  trail  by 
which  he  had  departed  that  morning  had  led  to- 
ward the  west,  toward  Berens  River. 

Instantly  the  whole  thing  became  clear  to  Phil. 
The  island  of  spruce  was  northwest  of  Fort  Dease. 
It  was  the  only  logical  place  for  Solomon's  camp. 
With  perfect  confidence  Phil  turned  along  the 
shore  to  the  southeast. 

Through  the  long  hours  of  the  night  he  did  not 
stop.  Walking  as  fast  as  he  could,  often  breaking 
into  the  easy,  shuffling  gait  of  the  dog  driver,  he 
kept  on.  But  the  pace  could  not  last.  The  chain 
knotted  at  each  ankle  became  more  and  more  of  a 
hindrance.  It  began  to  chafe  his  legs  as  the  knots 
swung  back  and  forth  with  each  step.  In  time, 
as  Phil's  knees  grew  weary,  the  unaccustomed 
weight  served  to  throw  him  off  his  balance  and  he 
stumbled  over  the  uneven  surface  in  the  dark. 

The  exhilaration  with  which  he  had  started,  even 


158  PENITENTIARY  POST 

though  it  were  heightened  by  his  certainty  that 
he  was  taking  the  right  direction,  was  not  suffi- 
cient to  spur  cramped,  sore,  tired  muscles  through 
many  miles.  By  midnight  his  pace  had  slowed 
down  to  a  bare  two  miles  an  hour.  By  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning  it  was  with  difficulty  that 
he  kept  moving  at  all. 

There  have  been  many  instances  of  men  con- 
tinuing to  travel  when  strength  seems  completely 
exhausted,  and  Phil  furnished  still  another.  He 
was  carried  on  by  the  desire  to  live,  by  the  desire  to 
reach  Joyce,  by  the  desire  to  serve  the  Company. 
He  cursed  the  chain  as  he  stumbled  forward.  He 
cursed  his  own  physical  weakness.  He  cursed 
Solomon  Moses.  He  cursed  Wickson.  And  be- 
cause the  cursing  seemed  to  help,  he  cursed  again 
and  again.  It  took  his  mind  off  his  physical  self, 
and  he  went  back  so  far  as  his  schooldays  and 
cursed  a  weazened,  sour,  uninspiring  little  teacher 
who  had  never  done  anything  more  than  make 
one  sarcastic  remark  relative  to  Phil's  lack  of 
proficiency  in  mathematics. 

And,  still  cursing,  he  came  to  the  mouth  of  Cut 
Bank  River  and  Fort  Dease.  At  the  first  indica- 
tion of  dawn — for  days  and  nights  would  soon  be  of 
equal  length — he  saw  the  squat,  desolate,  insigni- 
ficant little  buildings  perched  on  the  edge  of  the 
stream,  but  to  him  there  never  was  a  more  wel- 
come sight.  Forgetting  the  chains,  he  went 
quickly  up  the  slope,  through  the  side  gate  and 
across  to  the  kitchen  door. 


PHIL  REFUSES  HELP  159 

There  was  no  light,  but  he  had  not  expected  one. 
Joyce  was  asleep  but  she  must  be  wakened.  As 
he  neared  the  door  he  called: 

"Joyce!     Oh,  Joyce!" 

He  paused  outside  to  listen.  There  was  no 
answer. 

"Joyce!  "he  repeated.    "Wake  up!     I'm  back!" 

Still  there  was  no  sound  from  his  bedroom  and 
anxiously  he  opened  the  door  and  entered.  He 
struck  a  match,  but  there  was  no  lamp  in  the 
"kitchen,  and  he  clanked  across  the  floor  and  into 
the  living  room. 

"Joyce!"  he  called  again.  "Joyce!  Are  you 
here?" 

The  place  was  deathly  still  as  he  stared  about 
the  room.  Then  the  match  burned  his  fingers. 
He  struck  another  and  went  forward  to  the  table. 
As  it  flared  up  and  he  was  about  to  lift  the  chimney 
from  the  lamp  he  saw  the  long  butcher-knife 
from  the  kitchen  sticking  straight  up  in  the  read- 
ing-table and  squarely  in  the  centre  of  several 
sheets  of  paper.  His  first  glance  took  in  the  line 
at  the  top,  in  a  hand  unmistakably  feminine: 

To  whomsoever  comes  to  Fort  Dease  and  finds  this : 

His  fingers  trembling  from  sudden  fear,  Phil 
touched  the  match  to  the  wick,  replaced  the 
chimney  and  then  began  to  read: 

To  whomsoever  comes  to  Fort  Dease  and  finds  this: 
I,  Joyce  Plummer,  until  recently  serving  as  gover- 


160  PENITENTIARY  POST 

ness  to  the  children  of  Mr.  Osborne,  manager  of  the 
Hudson's  Bay  Company  post  at  Savant  House,  arrived 
at  Fort  Dease  on  the  first  day  of  March,  having  travelled 
the  last  two  days  alone  because  the  two  Indians  who 
came  with  me  refused  to  go  farther  on  the  grounds  that 
a  weeteego,  or  some  form  of  evil  spirit,  haunted  Fort 
Dease. 

Less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  fort,  and 
when  it  was  dark  and  storming  very  hard,  I  heard 
this  weeteego  shrieking  and  the  next  moment  it  almost 
ran  into  me,  turning  off  when  it  saw  me  and  my  dog- 
team  and  howling  as  it  ran.  I  called,  and  was  answered 
by  Mr.  Philip  Boynton,  manager  of  Fort  Dease,  who 
was  pursuing  the  weeteego  after  it  had  attempted  to 
enter  the  dwelling  house.  Mr.  Boynton  heard  me  and 
helped  me  reach  the  fort. 

I  wish  to  say  here  that  I  am  engaged  to  be  married  to 
Mr.  Boynton  and  that  I  made  the  journey  to  Fort  Dease 
from  Savant  House  because  I  believed  that  he  was  in 
danger.  This  belief  was  not  shared  by  any  one  else, 
despite  the  fact  that  the  former  manager  had  been 
taken  out  with  an  unsound  mind  because  of  his  experi- 
ences here  and  the  additional  fact  that  Mr.  Boynton's 
servant,  Sandy  Thunder,  deserted  him  in  November, 
leaving  him  alone  at  the  fort  until  my  arrival. 

I  wish  to  state  further  that  I  found  Mr.  Boynton 
nearly  exhausted,  both  nervously  and  physically, 
by  his  experiences  of  the  winter  and  that,  though 
he  did  not  wish  to  tell  me  at  first,  he  was  practically 
in  a  state  of  siege.  On  several  occasions  the  wee- 
teego, as  I  call  it,  has  gained  entrance  to  the  dwell- 
ing house,  once  being  driven  off  only  after  a  terrible 
struggle.  It  always  came  when  there  was  a  big 
storm  so  that  it  could  not  be  traced.  It  never  at- 
tempted to  steal  anything.  Mr.  Boynton  had  no 
knowledge  of  what  or  who  it  could  be,  whether  mentally 
unsound,  of  criminal  intent,  white  or  red.  Three  times 


PHIL  REFUSES  HELP  161 

Mr.  Boynton  fired  at  it  while  it  was  trying  to  open  the 
kitchen  door,  as  the  door  will  show. 

Soon  after  my  arrival  the  night  of  March  first, 
the  storm  ceased  and  the  sky  became  clear  and  the 
temperature  very  low.  Mr.  Boynton  did  not  ex- 
pect an  attack  but  nevertheless  he  barricaded  the 
kitchen  door  and,  though  he  told  me  he  would  sleep 
in  the  living  room,  he  did  not  lie  down  but  sat  up 
on  the  couch.  I  wakened  in  the  night  and  went 
out  and  saw  that  he  had  gone  to  sleep  and  fallen  over, 
and  I  laid  a  blanket  over  him. 

When  I  wakened  again  it  was  broad  daylight.  I 
thought  that  strange,  as  we  were  to  start  early  that 
morning  for  Mr.  Lowry's  nearest  outpost  as  Mr. 
Boynton  had  to  round  up  his  hunters,  all  of  whom, 
with  about  twenty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  Com- 
pany goods,  were  not  intending  to  return  to  Fort 
Pease  but  were  going  with  their  fur  to  the  opposi- 
tion up  the  shore  of  the  bay. 

I  called  his  name,  but  there  was  no  answer,  so  I 
dressed  and  went  out.  The  kitchen  door  was  open 
and  a  window  had  been  taken  out,  sash  and  all.  Out- 
side in  the  fresh  snow  were  tracks  that  told  unmis- 
takably that  the  weeteego  had  come  in  the  night,  had 
made  Mr.  Boynton  prisoner  and  had  carried  him  away 
on  a  toboggan.  I  followed  the  toboggan  track  down 
to  the  shore  of  the  bay.  There  was  no  sign  there  on  the 
hard  crust  and  ice  to  tell  in  which  direction  he  had  been 
taken.  I  could  only  see,  by  the  tracks  at  the  house, 
that  the  weeteego  had  no  dogs  but  had  drawn  his  tobog- 
gan himself,  and  I  knew  therefore,  that  he  could  not 
have  gone  very  far. 

I  returned  to  the  dwelling  house,  started  a  fire 
for  breakfast  and  have  written  this.  After  I  have 
eaten  I  will  hitch  up  the  dogs  and  start  northwest 
along  the  shore  and  try  to  see  where  Mr.  Boynton 
has  been  taken,  and,  if  possible,  set  him  free. 


162  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Here  Joyce  signed  her  name,  but  there  was  more 
beneath  it: 

March  third:  I  followed  the  shore  toward  the  north- 
west all  yesterday  but  could  not  see  a  sign  of  any  one 
having  fivelled  that  way  nor  of  any  one  having  left 
the  ice  to  go  on  to  the  shore.  I  concluded  that  I  had 
taken  the  wrong  direction  and  the  next  day  returned  to 
Fort  Dease.  To-morrow  morning  I  will  start  along  the 
shore  to  the  southeast  and  will  keep  On  until  I  find  a 
trace  of  him. 

For  a  full  minute  Phil  did  not  move.  He  had 
been  leaning  with  both  hands  on  the  table,  his 
head  bent  forward,  and  it  sank  still  lower  as  he 
stared  at  the  last  sheet.  Joyce,  out  there  on  the 
shore  ice,  going  farther  and  farther  away,  even 
then  probably  breaking  camp  and  pressing  on  in 
search  of  him!  Joyce,  a  long  day  ahead  of  him, 
the  certain  victim  of  the  first  storm  that  would 
sweep  down  the  coast!  No  shelter,  no  fuel, 
nothing  to  guide  her  if  the  thick  snow  should  come! 
A  team  of  half-wild  dogs  that  might  even  now  have 
run  away  from  her,  leaving  her  without  food  or 
robes ! 

Slowly,  absently,  he  rearranged  the  sheets  of 
paper,  thrust  the  knife  back  into  the  hole  it  had 
made  and  pressed  it  into  the  table.  Listlessly  he 
turned  away,  and  then  with  a  leap  that  carried 
him  half  way  to  the  door  he  started  for  the  kitchen 
and  began  building  a  fire.  He  rushed  outside  and 
filled  a  pail  with  snow  and  set  it  on  the  stove  and 
then  started  a  fire  in  the  living  room  stove.  Back 


PHIL  REFUSES  HELP  163 

in  the  kitchen  again  he  searched  in  the  cupboard 
and  found  a  file  he  had  used  to  sharpen  the  butcher- 
knife.  He  hurried  back  to  the  living  room  and, 
seated  on  the  floor  beside  the  now  roaring  heater, 
he  began  sawing  away  at  a  link  of  the  chain  around 
one  ankle. 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  Phil  filed  and  cooked  and 
filed  and  ate,  and  when  he  had  finished  eating  he 
filed  until  his  hands  were  cramped  and  his  arms 
ached.  But  at  last  both  legs  were  free. 

An  additional  half  hour  was  necessary  for  his 
preparations.  He  had  thrown  off  the  malodorous 
skins  he  had  worn  from  Solomon  Moses'  camp 
and  now  he  clad  himself  in  his  own  winter  cos- 
tume. He  gathered  food  and  some  fuel,  a  pail  and 
two  rabbitskin  blankets  and  lashed  them  all  on  a 
small  toboggan  which  had  been  hanging  in  the 
trade  shop.  He  tied  his  snowshoes  on  top  and 
then  searched  the  house  for  his  rifle.  When  he 
did  not  find  it  he  decided  that  Joyce  must  have 
taken  it.  So  he  got  between  the  traces,  started 
down  the  slope  to  the  shore  ice  and  set  off  at  a 
trot  toward  the  southeast. 

The  monotony  of  travel  brought  opportunity  for 
reflection.  The  first  thing  that  occurred  to  him 
was  his  failure  to  add  a  postscript  to  Joyce's 
message.  Otherwise,  any  one  coming  the  next 
summer  would  never  learn  what  had  happened  to 
him.  It  was  not  of  sufficient  importance  even  to 
consider  turning  back,  however,  and  he  went  on,  his 
mind  busy  with  the  possibilities  of  catching  Joyce. 


164  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Phil  admitted  readily  to  himself  that  the  situa- 
tion was  about  as  hopeless  as  had  been  his  own 
position  when  lying  prisoner  in  Solomon  Moses' 
camp.  This  was  the  fourth  day  of  clear,  fair 
weather.  The  temperature  was  fifty  or  more 
below  each  night,  but  that  was  nothing  compared 
to  the  storms  that  generally  sweep  the  coast. 
With  no  wind  a  man  can  survive.  With  a  bliz- 
zard howling  down  across  the  six  or  seven  hundred 
miles  of  unobstructed  bay,  with  no  shelter  within  a 
hundred  miles,  with  no  fuel,  a  Northman  would 
have  a  difficult  time  of  it.  Joyce  would  be  easy 
prey,  while  he,  on  the  verge  of  exhaustion,  could 
not  fare  better. 

All  day  as  he  hurried  on  he  watched  the  sky  as 
much  as  the  ice  ahead  of  him.  Granted  that  he 
could  keep  on,  granted  that  the  good  weather  held, 
he  could  not  hope  to  overtake  Joyce  until  two  days 
and  two  nights  had  passed.  Then,  even  if  she 
still  had  the  dogs,  a  day  and  night  at  least  would  be 
required  for  the  return  journey.  And  to  expect 
seven  days  without  a  storm!  It  was  preposter- 
ous. 

Despite  the  hopelessness  of  it,  despite  the  fear 
that  grew  and  grew,  despite  his  own  weariness  and 
the  slower  and  slower  pace,  Phil  kept  doggedly 
at  it  until  nearly  dark.  Then  he  stopped  only 
long  enough  to  get  a  bite  to  eat.  Night  found  him 
again  plodding  on,  keeping  at  the  edge  of  the  hard 
going,  watching  always,  to  the  right,  the  left  and 
ahead,  even  stopping  occasionally  to  call. 


PHIL  REFUSES  HELP  165 

Midnight  came  and  he  began  to  debate  with 
himself  the  advisability  of  resting  until  morning. 
But  always  the  thought  that  when  morning  came 
Joyce  would  be  resuming  her  journey  ahead  of 
him  brought  a  new  resolution. 

Later  he  began  to  consider  whether  he  should 
not  go  on  without  his  toboggan.  It  was  becom- 
ing unbearably  heavy.  And  Joyce  had  surely 
taken  plenty  of  food  and  robes.  Any  girl  who 
would  have  the  courage  to  undertake  such  a  jour- 
ney would  have  brains  enough  to  go  well  provided 
when  she  had  dogs  to  pull  all  she  needed.  Then 
the  thought  would  come:  "What  if  the  dogs  ran 
away  with  the  toboggan  and  left  her?"  He  would 
stumble  on,  tugging  harder  at  his  load. 

Under  such  conditions  it  is  invariably  the  case 
that  a  man's  mind  goes  first.  When  that  vague 
thing  called  a  spirit  maintains  its  relentless  urging, 
when  muscles  continue  to  contract  long  after  the 
last  reserve  of  power  seems  to  have  been  tapped, 
visions  come,  strange,  vague,  oppressive  thoughts 
that  flit  and  flare  and  mock  and  madden. 

They  came  to  Phil,  intermittently  at  first,  and 
he  brought  all  his  mental  energy  to  bear  in  an 
attempt  to  fight  them  off.  He  knew  too  well 
that  they  would  only  hasten  the  end,  that  in  their 
grip  he  might  wander  out  to  sea  on  the  ice  or  pass 
Joyce  on  the  shore. 

But  they  came  back  to  taunt  him.  Once  they 
made  him  see  Joyce  just  ahead  and  he  ran  forward, 
crying  her  name,  until  he  tripped  and  fell  and  re- 


166  PENITENTIARY  POST 

covered  his  senses.  Once  he  heard  the  yelp  of  her 
dogs,  her  dogs  running  away,  and  he  shouted 
hoarse  commands. 

Then,  so  clearly  it  startled  him,  he  heard  the 
tinkle  of  a  sleigh-bell.  It  stopped  him  short,  and 
he  looked  eagerly  behind  and  on  each  side.  He 
hesitated,  then  laughed  bitterly  and  started  on. 
Again  he  heard  the  bell.  He  knew  it  was  a  de- 
lusion, but  he  stopped  again. 

The  tinkle  came  once  more,  from  the  rear,  and 
he  wheeled  about.  As  he  stood  there,  swaying 
with  weakness,  he  saw  a  dark  object  on  the  ice 
rushing  toward  him.  But  he  thought  it  only 
another  delusion  and  turned  to  start  on  again. 

The  bell  sounded  nearer,  but  he  ignored  it. 

"Joyce!  Joyce!"  came  in  a  great  voice  from 
behind  him.  "Joyce!  Wait!  I'm  coming!" 

Phil  wheeled,  every  nerve  tense,  the  delusions 
scattered  by  the  reality  of  that  voice,  by  the 
knowledge  of  whose  voice  it  was.  As  he  stood 
there  a  dog-team  dashed  up  and  was  halted  at  his 
side.  A  man  came  running  forward  to  peer  into 
his  face. 

"Damn  you,  Wickson!"  Phil  cried.  "Go  back! 
Keep  out!  You  started  this  but  you  can't  see  the 
finish." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
"SHE  DID  THAT!    TO  ME!" 

PHIL  drew  back  his  right  fist,  swung  vic- 
iously at  Wickson's  face,  missed,  whirled 
himself  off  his  feet  and  sprawled  out  on  the 
ice. 

He  did  not  get  up.  The  sudden,  excessive 
effort  had  sapped  the  last  of  his  strength.  The 
quick  blaze  of  anger  had  completed  the  work  of 
exposure,  anxiety,  loss  of  sleep  and  terrific  exer- 
tion. 

When  he  recovered  consciousness  day  had  come 
and  he  was  being  bumped  along  as  he  had  been 
when  Solomon  Moses  had  carried  him  away.  For 
a  moment  he  believed  that  he  was  again  in  the 
Indian's  power. 

But  there  was  no  covering  over  his  face.  In- 
stead of  the  soft,  padding  shuffle  of  Solomon's 
hairy  boots  there  came  the  quick,  scratching  sound 
of  many  small  feet.  He  was  only  half  reclining, 
and  he  lifted  his  head  to  see  five  weary  dogs  be- 
tween the  traces  and  at  their  head  the  vigorous, 
swiftly,  moving  figure  of  John  Wickson. 

For  a  time  he  was  content  to  lie  where  he  was. 
He  did  not  let  the  district  manager  know  that  he 
was  awake,  but  after  a  few  minutes  Wickson 

167 


168  PENITENTIARY  POST 

turned  and  saw  that  Phil's  eyes  were  open.     Im- 
mediately he  halted  the  team  and  walked  back. 

"We'd  better  have  something  to  eat,"  he  said 
as  he  began  to  undo  the  lashings  that  held  Phil 
to  the  toboggan.  "I've  been  waiting  until  you 
came  to.  Feel  any  better?" 

"A  little." 

Wickson  spread  some  robes  on  the  ice. 

"Lie  down  on  these,"  he  commanded,  "while  I 
get  a  lunch.  Guess  we  won't  bother  with  tea.  We 
may  need  the  wood  later.  Looks  like  a  storm." 

Phil  did  not  comment  while  Wickson  drew  some 
frozen  bannock  and  meat  from  his  grub-box. 
The  mention  of  a  storm  had  brought  back  with 
added  force  the  seriousness  of  Joyce's  predicament. 
He  watched  the  sky  anxiously,  noted  the  direc- 
tion of  the  wind,  argued  with  his  better  judgment 
that  the  storm  would  not  strike  before  noon. 

He  was  hungry,  too,  and  when  Wickson  handed 
him  his  portion  of  frozen  food  he  began  to  gnaw 
at  it  as  voraciously  as  had  Solomon  Moses.  After 
the  meal  the  district  manager  asked  his  first 
question. 

" How  did  you  get  loose ?     Kill  him?" 

"No.     He  went  away  and  I  cut  the  straps." 

"Couldn't  get  the  chains  off,  eh?" 

"You  saw  them  at  the  fort!" 

"Yes.  Didn't  see  any  signs  of  Miss  Plummer 
on  your  way  back?" 

"No.  I  travelled  in  the  night.  She  probably 
turned  back  before  she  got  as  far  as  I  was." 


"SHE  DID  THAT!  TO  ME!"        169 

"Well,  we  mustn't  lose  any  time  now.  Want 
me  to  tie  you  on?" 

"No,  I  can  stick." 

Phil  wrapped  the  robes  about  him  and  sat  down 
on  the  toboggan,  leaning  back  against  the  load. 
Wickson  went  to  the  head  of  the  team  and  started 
on  at  once.  For  an  hour  he  did  not  falter.  Then 
he  called  back,  only  half  turning  his  head: 

"I  think  I  see  her." 

Wickson,  because  he  was  on  his  feet,  had  the 
larger  horizon,  and  it  was  some  time  before  Phil, 
too,  saw  a  dark  spot  on  the  ice  ahead  of  them. 

"Can  you  make  her  out?"  he  demanded. 

"Not  yet." 

After  a  while  Wickson  called  back  again: 

"  She's  not  there.  It's  only  the  dogs,  all  tangled 
in  a  bunch." 

Phil  raised  himself  to  get  a  better  view.  The 
thing  he  had  feared  had  happened.  Joyce  might 
still  be  many  miles  away,  more  miles  than  they 
could  cover  before  the  storm  struck  them.  The 
wind  was  gaining  in  force  constantly  and  he  could 
feel  the  cold  through  his  robes.  If  Joyce  had  been 
thrown  and  hurt  when  her  team  broke  away,  if  she 
had  been  left  lying  on  the  ice,  she  would  be  dead  if 
they  did  reach  her. 

Wickson  had  increased  his  pace  and  in  fifteen 
minutes  he  halted  the  team  fifty  yards  from  the 
dogs  ahead  of  them.  Phil  got  to  his  feet  to  look. 
Perhaps  Joyce  lay  on  the  other  side  of  the  little 
knot  of  dogs. 


170  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Wickson  was  already  half  way  there,  and  Phil 
tipped  over  the  toboggan  on  which  he  had  been 
riding  and  his  own,  which  Wickson  had  tied  at  the 
rear.  The  team  thus  anchored,  he  ran  ahead. 

"Got  loose  this  morning  probably  when  she  was 
hitching  them  up,"  commented  the  district  man- 
ager, who  was  already  busy  untangling  the  harness. 
"You  can  see  they  weren't  hitched  to  the  tobog- 
gan. They  look  in  good  shape,  so  she  probably 
fed  them  last  night.  And  she  can't  be  many  miles 
ahead,  for  these  fellows  couldn't  have  gone  far 
without  getting  in  a  mess  like  this." 

Phil  did  not  comment.  He  had  seen  everything 
that  Wickson  had.  He  had  also  seen  the  first 
driving  flakes  of  the  storm.  To  the  north  a  white 
curtain  shut  out  the  sky  and  the  ice,  and  he 
wheeled  anxiously  toward  the  southeast  for  a  last 
look  before  his  view  would  be  cut  off  in  that 
direction.  But  nowhere  was  the  gray  surface  of 
the  land  and  sea  broken  by  the  tiniest  point  of 
black. 

Phil's  eyes  became  blurred.  Somewhere  down 
there,  perhaps  injured,  perhaps  now  dead,  perhaps 
struggling  helplessly  on  in  search  of  him,  was 
Joyce.  Suddenly  he  was  crazed  by  the  thought  of 
it.  The  very  impotency  of  any  human  agency 
in  the  face  of  nature  as  she  was  about  to  manifest 
herself,  the  monstrous  injustice  of  Joyce's  plight, 
the  horrible  death  that  was  inevitably  hers,  all 
served  to  bring  a  blinding,  uncontrollable  rage. 

His  fists  clenched,  he  wheeled  upon  Wickson, 


"SHE  DID  THAT!  TO  ME!"        171 

who  was  bending  over  a  twisted  trace.  He  took  a 
step  forward,  then  stopped. 

"Wickson,"  he  said,  "look  here." 

The  district  manager  whirled  quickly,  for, 
though  Phil  had  spoken  quietly,  there  was  a  tense 
unnatural  note  in  his  voice. 

"I'm  going  on,  even  if  there  isn't  a  chance," 
Phil  continued.  "I've  got  to  go  on.  I've  got 
to  make  sure.  You  go  back." 

"I  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort." 

"You  will,  Wickson.  Because,  if  you  come 
with  me,  and  we  find  her,  find  her  too  late,  or  if 
we  don't  find  her  at  all,  I'm  going  to  kill  you. 
You'd  better  go  now  while  you  have  the  chance." 

If  Phil  had  spoken  wildly,  had  shouted  or 
cursed,  Wickson  would  have  ignored  him.  But 
he  was  deadly  quiet,  deadly  in  earnest,  and  there 
was  no  escaping  the  fact  that  he  meant  every  word 
he  said. 

"You  started  all  this,  Wickson,"  Phil  continued. 
"If  she  is  dead  it  is  you  that  killed  her  and  I'll  kill 
you.  You  call  yourself  a  Hudson's  Bay  man. 
You  pose  as  a  faithful  servant  of  the  Company. 
But  there  never  was  a  man  in  the  service  who 
betrayed  the  Company  to  help  himself  as  you  have 
done.  There  have  been  cowards  and  thieves  and 
crooks,  but  not  one  of  them  ever  left  a  Company 
man  to  die  when  they  might  have  sent  help,  or  let 
a  woman  go  out  and  do  what  the  Company  should 
have  done.  The  Company  has  always  protected 
its  men,  and  they  have  always  protected  each 


172  PENITENTIARY  POST 

other,  have  always  stood  together.  But  you,  to 
get  me  out  of  the  way,  to  get  what  you  thought 
would  be  a  clear  field,  risked  everything  except 
your  own  hide. 

"  But  you're  going  to  be  paid  for  it.  After  this 
storm  I'll  kill  you  if  you're  here.  And  if  you  get 
back,  and  I  get  back,  I'll  follow  you  until  I  find 
you,  and  then  I'll  kill  you." 

As  the  first  rushing,  driving,  stinging  blast  of 
the  storm  struck  them  the  two  men  stood  facing 
each  other.  Phil  stared  the  hatred  that  had  not 
been  in  his  voice,  but  Wickson  seemed  not  to  have 
heard.  He  looked  at  Phil's  face,  absently,  as  if  his 
thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

"I  believe  you  would,"  he  said  at  last.  "But 
we've  got  to  get  started." 

Phil  reached  for  the  collar  of  Joyce's  leader  and 
dragged  the  team  back  to  his  own  toboggan.  He 
hooked  up  the  traces,  saw  that  his  load  was  secure, 
and  spoke  sharply  to  the  dogs. 

"Get  on  your  toboggan,"  commanded  Wickson, 
gruffly,  as  he  ran  up  and  tied  a  line  to  the  collar  of 
Phil's  leader  and  made  him  fast  to  the  rear  of  his 
own  sleigh. 

"Untie  that  dog!"  Phil  cried  as  he  sprang  for- 
ward. "You  heard  what  I  said!" 

"Get  on  your  toboggan,"  repeated  the  district 
manager.  "You're  in  no  shape  to  travel.  And 
don't  waste  time." 

Phil  stepped  close  to  Wickson  and  stared  at  him. 

"You  heard  what  I  said?" 


"SHE  DID  THAT!  TO  ME!"        173 

"Yes,  but  get  on  your  toboggan.  Hurry  man! 
There's  a  chance." 

His  last  word  brought  Phil  to  a  realization  of  the 
selfishness  of  his  hatred.  There  was  a  chance 
though  it  were  only  one  in  a  million,  but  as  long 
as  that  chance  existed  other  things  must  wait. 

"Go  on!"  he  exclaimed  as  he  turned  back  to  his 
toboggan.  Half  way  he  wheeled  and  shouted: 

"But  what  I  said  still  holds!" 

Wickson  nodded  as  he  ran  to  the  head  of  his 
team  and  started  on  down  the  shore. 

For  an  hour  they  travelled  thus,  each  man 
straining  his  eyes  in  an  effort  to  pierce  the  gray 
veil  that  surrounded  them.  Phil  had  an  unstable 
seat  on  his  little  toboggan,  and  the  wind  began  to 
find  crevices  through  which  it  reached  his  body. 
At  last  when  he  was  so  stiff  that  he  could  no  longer 
hang  on  he  rolled  off,  got  to  his  feet,  and  ran  ahead 
until  he  was  beside  Wickson. 

"This  is  getting  too  thick,"  he  panted.  "I'll 
take  my  team  and  stay  close  inshore,  and  you  take 
the  other  and  keep  a  little  farther  out.  We  might 
pass  her  this  way." 

"If  you  can  do  it,"  said  Wickson.  "But  don't 
get  out  of  sight  or  we'll  never  find  each  other." 

He  stopped  the  dogs  and  Phil  untied  his  leader. 

"Keep  me  in  sight  all  the  time,"  cautioned 
Wickson  as  they  started. 

For  another  hour  they  went  on,  always  at  a  trot, 
always  searching  the  ice  and  the  low,  level  shore, 


174  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Phil,  because  he  had  the  inside  course,  and 
because  his  anxiety  was  so  great,  glanced  only 
seldom  toward  the  other  dog-team.  Sometimes 
it  disappeared  in  a  thickening  burst  of  the  storm. 
Sometimes  it  was  ahead,  sometimes  behind,  and 
when  it  stopped  short  he  did  not  know  but  pressed 
on. 

For  Wickson  had  found  Joyce.  Stumbling 
blindly  along  in  the  smother,  far  out  from  shore, 
he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  on  his  left  and  had 
wheeled  immediately.  When  he  drew  up  beside 
her  he  glanced  back  and  saw  Phil's  team  disappear 
in  the  gray  curtain  down  the  wind. 

"You!"  cried  Joyce  when  she  saw  who  it  was. 

Wickson  looked  down  at  the  face  framed  by  the 
hood  of  dark  fur,  at  the  eyes  lighted  by  over- 
whelming relief.  He  trembled  when  she  reached 
out  and  grasped  his  hand  and  smiled  up  at  him, 
and  at  once  he  forgot  everything,  everything  ex- 
cept the  presence  of  this  woman  there  beside  him, 
the  fact  that  he  had  found  her,  that  he  could  save 
her,  that  .... 

He  glanced  quickly  over  his  shoulder.  Phil 
had  disappeared  in  the  storm  down  the  shore,  was 
going  on  and  on.  There  would  be  only  one  result. 
There  was  nothing  back  there  at  Fort  Dease  to  tell. 

There  was  no  one  within  two  hundred  miles,  no 
one  except  him  and  this  woman.  His  fierce 
determination  to  have  her  overpowered  all  else. 

"Joyce!"  he  cried,  sweeping  his  arms  about  her. 
"Now  you're  mine!  Now!" 


"SHE  DID  THAT!  TO  ME!"        175 

Instantly  a  small,  mittened  fist  struck  the  white 
patch  from  his  chin  where  the  skin  had  frozen  and 
left  a  red  smear  across  his  face.  Another  fist  dug 
into  his  stomach  so  wickedly  that  he  gasped  for 
breath  and  loosened  the  grip  of  his  arms. 

"You  beast!"  cried  Joyce  as  she  sprang  free. 
"You  sent  him  up  here  to  this.  You  would  not 
help  him,  and  now,  when  he  may  be  dying  just 
ahead,  you  stand  here  and  say  'mine.' 

"Yours!  What  is  yours?  You  have  nothing 
that's  decent  or  honest.  You  have  the  soul  of  a 
snake,  and  the  heart  of  one,  and  the  ways  of  one. 
You  have  the  body  of  a  big,  strong,  brave  man,  and 
you  have  instincts  that  would  shame  a  wolf. 

"You  call  yourself  a  Hudson's  Bay  man,  but 
there  isn't  a  sleigh-dog  at  any  post  that  isn't  a 
better  servant  of  the  Company.  You  would  wreck 
the  Company  to  gain  your  own  ends.  You  would 
sacrifice  good  men. 

"Yours!"  Joyce  fairly  screamed  in  the  excess  of 
her  passion.  "I'll  show  you  if  I'm  yours!  Take 
your  dogs!  Go  back  with  them!  I'll  go  on  and 
find  him,  and  even  failure  and  cold  and  hunger  and 
the  end  will  bring  greater  happiness  than  you  could 
give  me  in  a  thousand  years." 

She  turned  abruptly  and  started  off,  walking 
rapidly  down  the  wind  toward  the  shore. 

Wickson  stared  at  her  as  he  had  stared  at  Phil 
two  hours  before.  For  a  moment  he  was  per- 
plexed, mystified.  Then  came  a  quick  flash  of 
anger,  anger  that  was  directed  at  the  back  of 


176  PENITENTIARY  POST 

the  girl  now  half  enveloped  in  the  curtain  of  the 
storm. 

"And  she  did  that!  To  me!"  he  exclaimed, 
fiercely. 

He  spoke  to  his  dogs  and  started  after  Joyce 
in  his  long,  easy,  swift,  swinging  lope.  As  she 
heard  his  approach  she  whirled  to  face  him. 

"Get  on  the  toboggan,"  he  commanded,  grufHy, 
as  he  stopped  the  team. 

"I  won't!" 

He  picked  her  up,  carried  her  back,  and  dropped 
her  heavily  on  the  top  of  the  load. 

"Hang  on,"  he  said  as  he  turned  away.  "  Boyn- 
ton  is  just  ahead  somewhere.  We've  got  to  hurry." 

He  started  forward  on  the  run,  veering  in  toward 
shore  and  calling  to  his  dogs.  In  a  moment  the 
team  was  galloping  to  keep  up  with  him. 

Wickson's  anger  increased  as  he  ran,  and  he  wasi 
alert  for  the  first  sign  of  the  team  and  its  driver 
somewhere  ahead  of  him  in  the  storm.  He  had 
suddenly  discovered  that  he  must  catch  Phil,  that 
he  must  find  him  before  it  was  too  late,  that  noth- 
ing else  mattered. 

It  was  not  a  sudden  solicitude  for  Phil's  safety 
that  drove  him  on.  Phil,  as  had  always  been  the 
case  with  Wickson,  was  merely  a  means  to  an  end, 
and  now  Wickson  desired  his  safety,  not  for  Phil's 
sake,  but  for  his  own. 

"And  she  did  that!  To  me!"  he  repeated 
fiercely  to  himself  again  and  again,  and  each  time 
he  ran  faster. 


"SHE  DID  THAT!  TO  ME!"        177 

For  Wickson  had  been  stung  as  he  never  had 
been  before.  Not  by  what  Joyce  had  said  to  him, 
not  by  what  Phil  had  threatened,  but  by  his  own 
treachery,  by  what  he  had  done  to  himself.  It  was 
his  pride  that  had  been  injured,  and  his  anger  was 
the  greater  because  he  himself  had  delivered  the 
blow.  At  first  that  anger  had  been  directed  to- 
ward Joyce,  but  as  his  mind  grasped  all  the  facts 
she  faded  from  his  thoughts. 

John  Wickson  had  always  been  accustomed  to 
winning.  He  never  had  known  what  failure  might 
be.  Success  was  a  habit  with  him.  In  his  own 
way  he  had  been  proud  of  this  success,  but  as  he 
ran  on  ahead  of  his  dogs  he  saw  that  his  pride 
was  in  himself,  not  in  what  he  had  accomplished. 
It  was  he,  he  alone  with  his  power  and  his  strength 
and  his  determination  and  his  intellect  that  had 
carried  him  high  in  the  North  country.  It  was  his 
greatest  possession,  this  ability  to  win,  not  to  win 
by  any  means,  but  to  win  solely  through  sheer 
strength  of  mind  and  of  body. 
i  Back  there  on  the  ice  he  had  done  something 
he  had  never  done  before,  something  he  had  never 
considered  doing.  He  had  abandoned  his  usual 
methods,  he  had  mistrusted  his  own  ability,  he  had 
descended  to  treachery  to  gain  what  he  wanted. 
He  was  not  afraid  of  Boynton,  not  afraid  of  his 
threat.  He  would  delight  in  an  equal  combat. 
Yet  he  had  taken  the  weakling's  way,  had  dodged 
a  fight,  had  shown  disrespect  for  his  own  power. 
To  win  this  woman  he  would  have  let  Phil  go  on  to 


178  PENITENTIARY  POST 

perish  instead  of  dragging  him  back  and  crush- 
ing him  as  he  could. 

The  thought  stung  him  on  to  a  faster  pace,  to  a 
greater  desire  to  take  him  and  Joyce  back  to  Fort 
Dease,  to  reestablish  the  struggle  on  an  even  foot- 
ing. Then,  and  he  smiled  grimly,  he  would  win  as 
he  always  had  won,  by  the  sheer  strength  of  him. 

Accordingly  there  was  a  certain  exultation  in 
his  cry  when  he  caught  sight  of  a  dim  shadow  ahead 
of  him.  In  a  moment  he  had  dashed  up  to  Phil's 
toboggan  and  stopped  his  team.  With  a  jerk  of 
his  thumb  over  his  shoulder,  he  sat  down  with  his 
back  to  Joyce,  staring  ahead  with  a  grim  smile 
when  he  saw  Phil  dash  past  him,  heard  her  low  cry 
as  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 

Of  what  happened  in  the  next  forty-eight  hours 
none  of  the  three  was  ever  able  to  recall  anything 
except  isolated  incidents.  All  that  time  they  lay 
wrapped  in  their  robes,  buried  in  the  snow.  The 
storm  roared  over  their  heads,  never  relaxing  its 
vigilance,  never  missing  an  opportunity  to  swoop 
down  and  enter  the  smallest  opening. 

Each  nursed  a  piece  of  frozen  meat  close  to  the 
body.  When  the  surface  was  thawed  they  nib- 
bled. After  each  short  sleep  they  wakened  to  find 
several  mouthfuls  ready. 

None  knew  what  the  others  did.  For  the  first 
twenty-four  hours  they  did  not  care.  Joyce  had 
been  exhausted  by  four  days  of  steady  travel. 
Phil  had  hardly  been  in  fit  shape  to  leave  Fort 


"SHE  DID  THAT!  TO  ME!"        179 

Dease.  Wickson  had  travelled  a  thousand  miles 
since  February  first.  He  had  ridden  much  of  the 
way,  but  the  two  days  before  he  had  reached  Fort 
Dease  he  had  travelled  alone,  and  for  three  days 
and  two  nights  he  had  not  stopped  even  to  make  a 
fire.  Hard,  unbreakable  man  that  he  was,  he  had 
reached  the  point  where  rest  was  more  than 
welcome. 

Trying  as  was  the  siege,  each  benefited  by  it. 
They  were  comparatively  comfortable.  Wickson 
had  turned  the  toboggans  on  edge  under  a  form- 
ing drift  so  that  the  storm  defeated  itself  by  con- 
tinually adding  to  their  covering.  They  derived 
nourishment  from  the  meat,  and  they  could  sleep 
undisturbed. 

The  evening  of  the  second  day  the  storm  blew 
out.  The  three  emerged  like  polar  bears,  shaking 
off  the  snow.  Wickson  and  Phil  began  at  once  to 
round  up  and  harness  the  dogs.  The  toboggans 
were  loaded,  a  comfortable  place  was  made  for 
Joyce  on  the  larger  one,  and  they  were  soon  ready 
to  start. 

Little  was  said  during  the  preparations.  Phil, 
in  answer  to  Joyce's  questions,  had  outlined  the 
story  of  his  capture  and  explained  the  mystery  of 
Solomon  Moses.  She  told  how  she  had  lost  her 
team  in  the  morning  and  had  abandoned  the  to- 
boggan because  she  could  not  drag  it. 

Phil  asked  the  district  manager  how  he  happened 
to  arrive  on  the  scene  when  he  did. 

"I  got  back  to  Savant  House  three  weeks  after 


1 8o  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Miss  Plummer  left,"  Wickson  answered,  simply. 
"I  started  after  her  at  once.  It  was  no  trip  for  a 
woman.  About  fifty  miles  from  Dease  I  met  her 
Indians.  Said  they  were  afraid  of  a  weeteego. 
Mine  wouldn't  go  on,  so  I  came  alone.  Found 
her  note  and  saw  where  you  had  filed  off  the  chains 
and  knew  you  had  got  loose.  I  started  less  than 
ten  hours  after  you  did." 

There  was  now  no  danger.  By  travelling  all 
night  and  most  of  the  next  day  they  would  reach 
Penitentiary  Post,  where  they  would  have  good 
food,  shelter,  a  chance  to  rest.  What  would  come 
afterward,  they  did  not  even  plan.  Each  was 
still  suffering  from  the  lassitude  which  follows 
bodily  exhaustion. 

They  travelled  all  night.  At  dawn  they  halted 
and  built  a  fire.  Stimulated  by  the  hot,  black  tea, 
they  decided  to  go  on  until  they  reached  the  fort. 
They  were  tired,  but  they  would  rather  rest  in  bed 
than  on  the  ice,  would  rather  sit  down  to  a  table  of 
steaming  dishes  than  continue  to  gnaw  frozen 
food. 

They  went  on  all  day.  Every  hour  Wickson 
and  Phil  changed  places,  one  riding,  the  other 
going  ahead,  while  occasionally  Joyce  ran  beside 
the  dogs  to  drive  the  numbness  from  her  feet  and 
the  ache  of  the  cold  from  between  her  shoulders. 

When  darkness  came  there  was  no  sign  of  the 
fort.  It  meant  two  more  hours  at  least,  possibly 
three,  with  the  dogs  showing  signs  of  the  strain. 
But  always  there  was  the  thought  of  warm  beds, 


"SHE  DID  THAT!  TO  ME!"        181 

endless  sleep,  scalding  tea,  fried  pork,  sugar,  hot 
bannock,  possibly  a  tin  of  jam. 

In  those  last  hours  it  is  doubtful  if  any  of  the 
three  considered  the  real  relationship  that  existed 
between  them.  Hatred  and  jealousy  and  fear  and 
contempt,  plan  for  the  future,  none  of  these  could 
persist  in  the  face  of  their  purely  physical  de- 
sires. 

Phil  was  in  the  lead  when  they  reached  the 
mouth  of  Cut  Bank  River. 

"We're  there!"  he  called  back  to  the  others  as  he 
turned  up  the  shore. 

In  a  moment  the  snow  forced  a  halt  and  he  re- 
turned to  the  rear  toboggan  for  his  snowshoes. 
Wickson  already  had  his  on  and  had  started  for- 
ward. 

"What's  that  smell?"  he  demanded,  suddenly, 
as  he  stopped  and  sniffed. 

Phil  looked  up,  inhaled  the  air. 

"Someone's  there!"  he  cried.  "They've  started 
a  fire  in  the  dwelling  house." 

He  sprang  after  W'ickson  and  the  dogs  toiled 
behind  him  in  the  deep  snow  of  the  slope. 

"How  far  back  is  the  fort?"  asked  Wickson, 
who  was  breaking  out  the  fresh  trail. 

"  Right  at  the  top  of  the  bank  here,"  answered 
Phil  as  he  peered  past  the  district  manager  into  the 
darkness. 

He  stopped,  stared  for  a  moment,  and  then 
sprang  on. 

"Hurry   up!"    he   called   at   Wickson's   back. 


182  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"There's    been    a    fire!    The    dwelling  house  is 
gone!" 

They  had  reached  the  top  of  the  low  bank  and 
Wickson  stopped  at  the  corner  of  the  picket  fence. 
Phil  ploughed  up  to  his  side.  Before  them  was  a 
white  expanse  broken  only  by  the  four  sides  of  the 
inclosure.  Dwelling  house,  trading  shop,  ware- 
house, servants'  house,  Indian  house,  all  were  gone. 
Even  the  cache  which  Phil  and  Sandy  had  made 
was  levelled. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

PHIL'S    PLANS   AND    WICKSON 

STANDING  side  by  side,  the  two  men  looked 
across  the  spot  where  Fort  Dease  had  been. 
The  space  within  the  inclosure  was  perfectly 
level.     The  blanket  of  snow  lay  unwrinkled.     The 
site  of  Penitentiary  Post  was  as  empty  and  as 
barren  as  the  surrounding  waste. 

Because  of  their  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
Northland,  Phil  Boynton  and  John  Wickson 
understood  at  once  and  perfectly  the  peril  they 
faced,  grasped  instantly  every  detail  of  their 
problem.  Neither  minimized  in  his  own  mind  the 
danger  of  the  situation  and  yet  neither  spoke  of  it. 

The  North  is  a  land  of  the  unexpected,  of  the 
uncertain,  and  those  who  are  of  it  know  the  in- 
finite possibilities  it  holds  for  irregularity  and 
variety.  They  come,  in  time,  to  treat  the  unusual 
as  the  usual,  the  extraordinary  as  the  common- 
place, and  to  them  there  is  nothing  surprising, 
nothing  disconcerting,  nothing  that  completely 
dismays.  Obstacles  are  inevitable.  Their  size 
and  peculiarities  only  cause  comment. 

And  so  it  was  that  Wickson  said: 

"Well,  the  woodpile  wasn't  burned.  We  can 
have  a  warm  camp  to-night." 

183 


184  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"Which  we're  tired  enough  to  care  more  about 
than  anything  else,"  added  Phil  as  they  turned 
back  to  bring  up  the  dogs. 

Half  way  they  met  Joyce  floundering  toward 
them  through  the  deep  snow. 

"What  has  happened?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"The  fort's  burned,  every  building  of  it," 
Phil  answered. 

"The  fort  burned!  Why,  that  means  that  we 
have  no  food,  no 

She  stopped,  unable  to  go  on  and  express  in 
words  what  the  situation  would  mean  to  them. 

"Oh,  we'll  get  out  somehow.  We'll  have  a  good 
camp  to-night.  That's  all  that  any  one  cares  about 
now.  And  when  we  are  rested  we'll  make  plans." 

"It  will  be  hardest  on  the  dogs,"  added  Wickson. 
"They'll  miss  a  meal  or  two." 

There  was  no  intention  on  the  part  of  the  men  to 
deceive  Joyce  as  to  the  true  situation.  She  did 
not  have  the  physical  strength  nor  the  skill  of  a 
man,  but  she  had  shown  herself  equal  in  spirit  in 
the  face  of  a  much  more  perilous  emergency,  and 
they  accorded  this  spirit  its  just  respect. 

It  was  this  one  thing,  however,  that  dismayed 
Phil.  Joyce  was  brave  enough,  but  that  very 
bravery  and  desire  to  do  her  share  would  only  add 
to  her  torture.  She  would  tax  her  strength  too 
often.  She  would  be  forced  to  go  on  when  her 
body  was  racked  by  every  step.  She  would  be 
cold  and  for  days  and  days  she  would  be  hungry, 
starving  at  the  end.  And  always  there  would  be 


PHIL'S  PLANS  AND  PTICKSON     185 

the  possibility  that  her  soft,  round,  pink  body 
would  become  "hard  and  cold  and  white  like  the 
pieces  of  ice  that  stick  up  on  the  shore  of  the  salt 
water." 

Phil's  concern  for  Joyce  served  only  to  strengthen 
his  determination  that  they  must  get  out,  and  as  he 
drove  his  team  into  the  inclosure  his  mind  was  busy 
with  the  problem. 

First,  they  would  have  food  for  no  more  than  two 
days  when  they  would  be  ready  to  leave  the  site  of 
Fort  Dease.  Fort  Berens  was  more  than  a  week's 
journey  to  the  northwest  along  the  coast,  a  fuelless, 
hazardous  trail.  Two  hundred  miles  to  the  west 
was  the  nearest  outpost  of  the  Company.  But 
only  an  Indian  could  find  it. 

They  were  bound  on  one  side  by  the  bay  and 
on  the  other  by  a  wide  strip  of  treeless,  storm- 
swept,  lifeless  country.  No  food,  no  shelter,  no 
fuel,  no  possibility  of  gaining  any  one  of  these — 
that  was  the  situation. 

In  a  surprisingly  short  time  Wickson  and  Phil 
had  taken  care  of  the  dogs  and  built  a  fire  in  the 
shelter  of  the  big  pile  of  wood.  They  started  snow 
to  melting  for  tea,  cut  some  bacon  and  mixed  a 
bannock.  Little  was  said  as  they  worked.  All 
three  were  very  tired,  and  because  of  their  weari- 
ness they  shivered  even  when  close  to  the  big  fire. 

The  tea  and  the  hot  food  accomplished  wonders 
in  reviving  their  spirits,  however,  and  after  the 
meal  they  became  even  cheerful.  Enjoyment  is 
largely  a  matter  of  contrast,  and  after  the  long, 


186  PENITENTIARY  POST 

cold,  weary  days  and  nights  on  the  shore  ice,  the 
shelter  of  the  woodpile,  the  full  stomachs  and  the 
roaring  blaze  brought  a  certain  amount  of  con- 
tentment. For  the  first  time  the  destruction  of 
the  fort  was  mentioned. 

"There  wasn't  a  fire  in  the  place  when  I  got  here 
just  before  dark  that  night,"  Wickson  said,  "and 
I  didn't  stop  to  build  one.  After  I  read  that  note 
I  started  at  once." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Phil.  "All  the  buildings 
wouldn't  catch  from  one  fire.  There  is  only  one 
answer  to  this.  Solomon  Moses  got  back  to  his 
camp  down  the  shore,  found  I  had  escaped,  and 
started  after  me.  His  life-work  has  been  to  starve 
a  Hudson's  Bay  Company  man  because  he  be- 
lieves the  Company  let  his  family  starve  two  years 
ago.  He  knew  that  if  he  burned  the  post  I 
couldn't  get  anything  to  eat  and  that  I  couldn't 
get  out  without  food." 

"But  the  thing's  done,"  was  the  district  man- 
ager's only  comment,  "  and  all  we  have  to  consider 
is  getting  out.  That  and  getting  supplies  in  here 
by  summer  so  we  can  take  care  of  the  hunters." 

"There  won't  be  any  hunters,"  Phil  retorted. 
"That  is,  unless  Solomon  Moses  is  captured  and 
the  Indians  rounded  up  before  spring." 

"But  you  can't  do  anything  like  that  without 
food.  We  haven't  enough  to  take  us  any- 
where. Our  best  plan  is  to  start  for  the  nearest 
outpost  to  the  west  and  travel  the  last  of  the  way 
on  nothing." 


PHIL'S  PLANS  AND  WICKSON     187 

"And  if  we  are  lost  or  delayed  by  a  storm  what 
will  we  live  on?"  asked  Phil. 

"That's  a  chance  we've  got  to  take,"  answered 
Wickson,  soberly. 

"And  in  the  meantime  we  leave  Solomon  Moses 
free  to  do  what  he  wants  to  do.  And  when  spring 
comes  the  Freetrader  will  have  the  hunters." 

"You  aren't  suggesting  that  we  eat  what  little 
food  we  have  while  we  try  to  capture  Solomon 
Moses?"  asked  Wickson.  "Isn't  it  better  to  go 
out  first,  get  food,  and  return?" 

"It  is  if  we  were  sure  of  getting  out.  But  look 
here.  You're  a  good  man,  Wickson.  They  say 
you  can  do  most  things  that  an  Indian  can  do. 
But  I  don't  think  you  can  get  across  to  the  nearest 
outpost.  I  don't  think  you  can  find  your  way 
after  that  storm.  And  we've  got  to  be  sure  when 
we  start  on  our  slim  rations. 

"Here's  what  I  suggest.  Solomon  Moses  left 
me  at  his  camp  down  the  shore  to  go  after  more 
meat.  He  probably  brought  in  at  least  a  hundred 
pounds.  It  started  to  snow  right  after  he  burned 
the  post.  He  most  likely  went  to  that  camp.  We 
can  go  down  there,  surprise  him,  give  him  a  run- 
ning start,  and  then  follow  his  trail  to  the  timber 
country.  We  can  use  what  meat  he  leaves  at  the 
camp  until  we  get  to  the  timber.  There  we  will 
have  a  chance  at  some  caribou  or  find  some 
hunter's  camp,  and  Solomon  will  supply  the  guide 
we  need." 

"And  if  anything  happens  to  lose  us  our  guide 


i88  PENITENTIARY  POST 

before  we  get  to  the  timber,  or  if  we  get  there 
and  can't  get  food?"  asked  Wickson,  quietly. 

"It's  a  chance  we've  got  to  take.  At  least  we 
don't  take  so  big  a  chance  that  way  as  to  start  to 
the  nearest  outpost  without  any  guide  and  on 
short  rations." 

It  was  a  plan  which  required  daring  and  courage. 
Neither  of  the  men  lacked  either.  And  Wickson 
had  chafed  inwardly  at  the  necessity  of  leaving 
Fort  Dease  without  doing  anything  to  save  the  fur 
business  for  the  Company.  In  either  programme 
they  faced  death  by  starvation.  But  in  Phil's 
plan  there  was  the  possibility  of  definite  ac- 
complishment. If  successful,  the  reward  of  their 
toil,  their  privations,  would  be  not  only  the  saving 
of  their  own  lives  but  the  achievement  of  that 
which  the  Company  had  a  right  to  expect  of  them. 

Both  men  were  silent  for  a  moment.  Then 
they  looked  up.  The  fire  of  courageous  purpose 
leaped  into  their '  eyes  simultaneously.  Joyce, 
watching,  was  thrilled  and  glad  at  the  same  time. 
But  when  they  spoke  it  was  quietly,  simply,  as 
though  over  the  decision  of  an  ordinary  day's 
work. 

"You're  right,  Boynton.  Your  plan  is  best. 
How  much  food  have  we?" 

"Enough  for  two  days." 

Wickson  arose. 

"I'm  going  to  take  a  look  around,"  he  said  as  he 
walked  out  past  the  fire.  "There  may  be  some- 
thing left,  something  we  can  use  for  dog  food  at 


PHIL'S  PLANS  AND  WICKSON     189 

least.  We  haven't  a  thing  for  them,  and  we  can't 
go  far  without  the  dogs." 

"Better  wait  until  daylight,"  Phil  suggested. 
"We  won't  be  getting  out  of  here  to-morrow  be- 
cause we  won't  be  fit  to  start." 

"I  want  to  know  what  we  have  to  bank  on  before 
I  go  to  sleep,"  was  the  answer,  and  Wickson  walked 
off  into  the  darkness. 

As  soon  as  they  were  alone  Joyce  leaned  over 
and  placed  a  hand  on  Phil's  arm. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  whispered.  "Must  we  stay 
with  him?  Isn't  there  some  way  to  have  Wickson, 
go  one  way  and  us  another?" 

"Not  with  two  days'  food,"  laughed  Phil. 
"But  there  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  We're 
in  the  same  boat  and  we've  got  to  stick  together. 
Afterward  we'll  have  something  to  settle.  But 
we're  neither  of  us  fools  enough  to  try  to  settle  it 
here  with  this  job  before  us." 

"But  he  will,  Phil,"  insisted  Joyce.  "That  is 
just  what  I  am  afraid  of.  Things  like  this  don't 
frighten  him.  Out  there  on  the  ice  that  day  he 
found  me,  in  the  face  of  everything,  he  made  love 
to  me.  Said  that  I  was  his,  that  he  had  found  me. 
He  won't  stop  at  anything.  Phil,  I  feel  sure  that 
he  didn't  intend  to  tell  me  that  you  were  near 
us,  that  he  intended  to  let  you  go  on  in  the  storm 
looking  for  me." 

"Wickson  wouldn't  do  a  thing  like  that.  He's 
a  hard  man,  but  he  wouldn't  fight  that  way. 


190  PENITENTIARY  POST 

This  is  the  kind  of  a  fight  that  you  can't  under- 
stand. He  understands  and  I  understand.  And 
I  know  that  I  can  trust  him  to  fight  fair." 

"But  you  only  look  at  it  from  a  man's  stand- 
point, and  as  a  man  sees  such  things.  A  woman 
feels  them,  Phil,  and  I  have  felt  all  along  that  we 
can't  trust  him.  He  didn't  play  fair  when  he  sent 
you  to  Penitentiary  Post,  and  he  didn't  play  fair 
when  he  refused  to  send  help  after  he  heard  that 
you  were  here  alone. 

"No,  Phil,  the  man  is  a  savage.  He  wants  me 
and  he  will  do  anything  to  get  me,  and  I'm  afraid." 

Phil  did  not  answer.  Something  in  Joyce's 
tone  had  caused  a  sense  of  uneasiness  which  her 
words  had  failed  to  inspire.  He  realized  suddenly 
that  the  situation  did  permit  Wickson  to  practise 
any  deviltry  he  might  devise.  He  knew  the 
district  manager  had  already  jeopardized  the 
Company's  interests  to  gain  his  own  ends,  while 
Joyce's  theory  that  Wickson  would  have  let  him  go 
on  alone  after  he  had  found  her  was  entirely  ten- 
able in  the  light  of  other  events. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "whether  you're 
right  or  not,  the  three  of  us  have  got  to  stick  to- 
gether, and  the  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  be  on  our 
guard." 

"Oh,  Boynton!"  came  a  strangely  muffled  voice 
from  out  in  the  darkness. 

Phil  jumped  to  his  feet,  but  Joyce  held  him 
back. 

"Don't    go!"    she    implored.     "It's    a    trap. 


PHIL'S  PLANS  AND  WICKSON     191 

Didn't  you  hear  how  strange  his  voice  sounded? 
He's  hiding  and  is  going  to  kill  you.  Phil.     Don't 

go-" 

"Such  a  thing  couldn't  happen,"  he  replied  as  he 
tried  to  release  himself. 

"Anything  can  happen  in  such  a  place  and  with 
such  a  man,"  she  declared,  fiercely.  "Ask  him 
what  he  wants." 

"What's  the  matter?"  Phil  called. 

"Come  here,  Boynton.     Give  me  a  hand." 

"Something  is  wrong,"  and  Phil  pulled  away  and 
ran  off  in  the  darkness. 

"  Where  are  you  ? "  he  called  when  he  reached  the 
site  of  the  dwelling  house. 

"Down  here,"  came  a  voice  from  his  feet,  and  he 
peered  into  what  had  been  the  cellar  beneath  the 
kitchen. 

"What's  happened?5 

"  I  went  through  the  floor  and  broke  my  leg  or 
turned  my  ankle,  or  something.  Give  me  your 
hand  and  I  can  get  out." 

Phil  reached  down,  braced  himself,  gripped  the 
ringers  that  touched  his,  and  heaved  with  all  his 
strength. 

"Lord,  that  hurts!"  came  from  Wickson's 
clenched  teeth  as  he  rolled  out  into  the  snow. 

He  lay  still  for  a  moment  and  Phil  bent  over  him, 
anxiously. 

"Maybe  it's  only  a  strain,"  he  said,  encourag- 
ingly. "You  can't  have  anything  like  that  now, 
man!" 


192  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"I've  got  it,"  was  the  vicious  retort.  "Give  me 
a  hand  over  to  the  fire." 

Phil  helped  him  to  his  feet  and  then  supported 
him  across  to  the  camp. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Joyce  when  they  entered  the 
circle  of  light. 

"Just  another  little  setback,"  said  Phil  as  he 
eased  Wickson  to  a  seat  on  a  blanket  before  the 
fire. 

He  began  at  once  to  undo  the  moccasin  lashings 
on  the  injured  foot  and  soon  had  the  duffles  and 
stocking  off. 

"That's  it,"  said  Wickson  as  he  bent  forward  to 
look,  the  perspiration  dripping  from  his  forehead. 
"I  lit  on  that  foot  and  turned  the  ankle,  turned  it 
bad.  I  won't  be  able  to  put  it  to  the  ground  for 
ten  days  or  two  weeks." 

He  glanced  up  to  see  the  consternation  in  the 
faces  of  his  companions. 

"Oh,  don't  let  it  bother  you,"  he  said,  gruffly. 
"Go  on.  Get  out  as  best  you  can.  I'll  stay  here 
and  take  my  chances." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    WHITE   DESERT 

TAKE  your  chances ! "  Phil  snorted.  "  What 
chances  have  you  ?  We  might  as  well  shoot 
you  as  leave  you  this  way." 

"But  you  can't  help  any  by  staying,  not  if  there 
were  a  dozen  of  you." 

"We're  not  going  to  stay.  We've  got  two  dog 
teams  and  one  of  them  can  haul  you." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Boynton.  A  dog  team  is  no- 
good  when  you  haven't  anything  to  feed  it.  I 
tell  you,  your  own  chances  are  slim  enough  and  I 
won't  be  a  burden  to  any  one.  Besides,  there  is 
the  Company  to  consider.  Those  Indians  must  be 
rounded  up,  supplies  must  be  got  in,  and  this  crazy 
Indian  put  out  of  the  way.  We  can't  lose  a  post 
like  this." 

Phil's  face  flushed  with  anger  when  Wickson 
mentioned  the  Company,  and  when  he  attempted 
to  speak  he  only  spluttered.  Then  before  the 
words  could  come,  he  turned  away  and  began  to 
throw  wood  upon  the  blaze  with  reckless  hands. 

"The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  get  that  ankle  fixed 
up,"  he  said  when  the  fire  was  roaring  to  suit  him. 
"Is  there  anything  on  your  toboggan  we  can  use 
for  a  bandage?" 

193 


194  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"There's  a  spare  shirt.  We  can't  do  anything 
but  bind  it  up  tight." 

Phil  found  the  shirt  and  cut  the  back  into  long 
strips.  With  Joyce's  help  he  bound  the  injured 
joint  firmly  and  evenly  and  then  replaced  the 
duffles  and  moccasin. 

"Now  you  must  keep  it  quiet,"  Phil  said  as  he 
began  to  arrange  Wickson's  bed  beside  the  fire. 
"We  won't  start  to-morrow  because  we  need  a  day 
to  rest  and  get  ready.  That  will  give  you  two 
nights  and  a  day  when  you  won't  have  to  move, 
and  we  can  keep  hot  cloths  on  it  to-morrow. 
We're  too  tired  to  do  it  to-night." 

Phil  arranged  Joyce's  bed  at  Wickson's  head 
and  his  own  at  the  district  manager's  feet  so  that 
they  flanked  the  fire  on  three  sides.  Each  had  a 
rabbit  skin  robe  sewed  to  half  of  a  four-point 
blanket,  a  covering  that  would  keep  them  warm 
even  without  a  fire,  and  ten  minutes  after  Wick- 
son's ankle  had  been  bandaged  Joyce  and  Phil  were 
asleep.  It  wasn't  long  afterward  before  the  dis- 
trict manager's  weariness  became  greater  than  the 
pain  and  he,  too,  had  dropped  off. 

It  was  mid-forenoon  before  Phil  wakened  and 
built  a  fire.  The  others  did  not  move  until  tea 
had  been  boiled.  The  sun  was  shining,  the  entire 
world  about  them  white  and  clean  and  fresh,  but 
the  camp  beside  the  woodpile  was  a  cheerless  place 
and  all  three  had  wakened  to  a  complete  realiza- 
tion of  what  they  faced. 

"We'll  see  how  much  food  there  is  before  we 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  195 

cook  breakfast,"  Phil  said  as  he  began  to  take 
things  from  the  grub-box  on  Wickson's  tobog- 
gan. 

The  others  watched  him  expectantly,  though 
each  knew  how  insignificant  the  supplies  were. 
When  it  was  all  spread  before  the  fire  they  looked 
at  each  other  questioningly. 

"We're  hungry  enough  to  eat  all  that  to-day," 
Phil  finally  said. 

"Three  days  is  as  long  as  we  can  make  it  last. 
But  it  will  take  us  to  Solomon  Moses's  shore  camp, 
and  I'm  banking  on  meat  there." 

"But  the  dogs?"  asked  Joyce. 

"I  fed  them  the  last  before  we  started  from  up  the 
shore,"  answered  Wickson.  "Didn't  you  have 
fish  stored  here,  Boynton?" 

"Solomon  wouldn't  have  left  any  of  that.  I'll 
get  some  breakfast  and  then  look  around.  There 
may  be  something  that  the  fire  didn't  touch." 

After  the  meal  Phil  made  a  careful  search  of  the 
entire  place.  In  the  cellar  of  the  dwelling  house 
he  found  a  charred  piece  of  bacon,  ten  pounds  in  all. 
In  the  ruins  of  the  warehouse  he  found  a  pile  of 
burned  fish.  He  dug  into  it  with  an  axe  and  dis- 
covered less  than  twenty  pounds  in  the  centre 
that  had  not  been  touched  by  the  fire.  Around 
this  was  enough  half-baked  food  to  last  the  dogs 
four  days,  while  the  half  dozen  unscorched  fish 
would  do  for  themselves. 

When  Phil  had  gathered  in  a  sack  all  the  dog 
food  he  could  he  turned  the  two  teams  loose  and  let 


196  PENITENTIARY  POST 

them  make  a  meal  of  the  charred  crumbs.     The 
hungry  animals  licked  up  all  that  remained. 

Little  was  said  about  the  camp  fire  that  after- 
noon. There  was  no  mid-day  meal  and  Phil  and 
Joyce  lay  on  their  robes  and  dozed,  while  Wickson 
sat  with  his  back  against  the  woodpile  and  his  in- 
jured ankle  near  the  blaze.  At  sunset  Phil  sat  up 
and  looked  at  the  sky. 

"We've  had  enough  rest,"  he  said,  suddenly, 
"and  night  is  as  good  as  day  for  travelling  on  the 
shore  ice.  We'll  start  now." 

He  sliced  some  of  the  burned  bacon  and  gave  it 
to  Joyce  to  fry  and  then  began  to  arrange  the  loads 
on  the  two  toboggans.  By  dark  the  teams  were 
hitched  up,  Wickson  was  seated  on  the  larger 
toboggan  with  his  back  against  the  robes  and  grub 
box,  and  they  were  ready  to  start.  Down  on  the 
shore  Phil  tied  the  leader  of  the  second  team  to  the 
tail  of  the  first  toboggan,  Joyce  took  her  seat  at  the 
rear,  and  they  were  off. 

Except  for  brief  stops  every  two  hours  to  give 
Phil  a  chance  to  regain  his  breath,  they  travelled  at 
a  trot  all  night.  Before  the  first  sign  of  dawn 
they  drew  in  close  to  shore,  where  the  wind  had 
banked  up  a  drift  against  projecting  pieces  of  shore 
ice,  and  halted. 

"We'll  stay  here  until  daylight  so  we  can 
see  what  we're  doing,"  said  Phil  as  he  sat  down 
beside  Joyce  on  her  toboggan. 

"Look  here,  Boynton,"  suddenly  exclaimed 
Wickson.  "I've  been  thinking  this  thing  over. 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  197 

Now's  the  time  to  get  this  Indian.  We  can't  let 
him  escape.  You  leave  us  and  go  ahead.  Sneak 
up  to  his  camp  with  my  rifle.  Make  a  noise  and 
when  he  looks  out,  shoot  him.  We've  got  a  chance 
to  get  him  now  and  we  can't  be  sure  of  having  it 
again." 

Phil  did  not  answer  and  Wickson  exclaimed, 
angrily: 

"Why,  there  is  no  other  way  to  look  at  it.  This 
man  has  ruined  the  business  of  the  post.  You  say 
yourself  that  if  he  continues  to  haunt  this  place 
not  a  hunter  will  stay  with  the  Company.  I  know 
it  looks  as  though  I'm  putting  it  up  to  you.  But 
you're  the  only  one  who  is  physically  able  to  do 
it." 

"There  is  not  a  chance  in  the  world  of  my  being 
able  to  get  him,"  retorted  Phil.  "That  Indian  is 
only  crazy  on  one  subject.  He  is  probably  ex- 
pecting just  that  thing,  and  waiting  for  it  with  his 
trade  gun.  And  even  if  I  thought  that  I  could  do 
it,  I  wouldn't." 

Wickson,  as  is  the  case  with  big,  active  men  who 
are  unable  to  do  what  they  see  must  be  done,  had 
grown  irritable.  At  Phil's  refusal  to  consider  such 
a  plan  of  procedure  he  turned  upon  him  savagely: 

"Think,  man,  the  chance  that  you  have! 
You  may  hunt  for  days,  weeks,  or  months  before 
you  find  him  again.  Think  what  you  owe  the 
Company!  God!  but  I  wish  I  had  two  legs. 
Solomon  Moses  would  never  leave  that  camp!" 

"Wickson,"   interrupted    Phil,  quietly.     "You 


198  PENITENTIARY  POST 

might  have  a  dozen  legs  and  you'd  never  kill  that 
Indian  while  I  was  here  to  prevent  it,  as  long  as  we 
need  him  for  a  guide  to  the  timber  country." 

"Why  don't  you  tell  the  truth?"  taunted  Wick- 
son.  "Why  don't  you  admit  that  you  are  afraid? 
It's  a  good  thing  for  the  old  H.  B.  C.,  Boynton, 
that  it  has  few  men  like  you  in  its  service  or  it 
would  be  a  laughing  stock  instead  of  the  mighty 
thing  it  is.  At  least  for  the  sake  of  the  men  who 
have  done  things  in  the  past  you  might  take  this 
little  chance." 

At  the  first  word  Phil  had  jumped  to  his  feet 
and  run  across  to  the  injured  man's  toboggan. 

"That's  enough,  Wickson,"  he  said.  "I'm  run- 
ning this  thing  and  I'll  run  it  as  I  see  fit.  I'm  not 
afraid  for  myself.  And  I  don't  care  particularly 
what  happens  to  you.  But  there's  a  woman  here. 
I'm  responsible  for  her.  And  she's  going  to  get 
out.  I'm  neither  going  to  risk  having  that  Indian 
get  me  with  his  trade  gun  nor  am  I  going  to  spoil 
our  chance  of  getting  a  guide  out  of  this  country. 

"Can't  you  see  what  that  would  mean,  Wick- 
son?  Isn't  it  bad  enough  for  her  to  be  out  here 
now,  where  only  men  should  be,  without  running 
the  risk  that  worse  things  should  happen?  Aren't 
you  satisfied  with  being  responsible  for  the  fact 
that  she  is  here,  without  wanting  to  place  her  in 
greater  danger? 

"Or  can  you  see  that  with  your  single  idea? 
I  tell  you  that  there  are  other  things  in  this  world 
besides  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  and  a  man's 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  199 

loyalty  to  it.  Thank  God,  I  can  keep  my  bal- 
ance." 

Phil  stopped  speaking  and  stood  waiting,  eager 
for  a  reply,  poised  to  deliver  a  fresh  denunciation. 
But  Wickson  had  nothing  to  say.  From  what 
Phil  could  see  of  him  in  the  darkness  he  did  not 
seem  even  to  have  heard.  He  was  gazing  at  the 
black  wall  of  night  out  on  the  ice.  At  last  a 
sound  came  from  his  lips,  a  mocking,  mirthless 
chuckle. 

Had  Phil  been  able  to  see  the  man's  face  he 
would  have  paused.  He  would  have  known  that 
the  laugh  was  not  for  him,  that  he  even  had  been 
forgotten.  But  he  could  not  see  and  he  burst  forth 
angrily: 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  talk  of  loyalty  from  you, 
Wickson.  I'll  never  learn  it  from  a  man  who  has 
put  himself  ahead  of  the  Company  as  you  have 
done.  You  are  responsible  for  the  loss  of  Fort 
Dease,  for  everything  that  has  happened  here. 
You  did  it  all  because " 

"That's  enough,"  snapped  Wickson.  "You've 
said  all  that.  Go  ahead  and  run  this  thing  as  you 
want  to." 

Phil,  more  angry  than  ever,  was  about  to  speak 
again  when  he  heard  Joyce  call  his  name  softly  and 
he  turned  and  went  back  to  her. 

"Don't,"  she  whispered.  "It  doesn't  do  any 
good,  and  it  only  takes  your  strength  to  become  so 
angry.  He's  not  worth  it,  Phil." 

"But " 


200  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"Yes,  I  heard  all  he  said,  and  if  it  is  the  thing 
to  do,  the  thing  to  do  for  the  Company,  I  wish  you 
would." 

"You're  a  better  man  than  he  is,"  he  whispered 
as  he  drew  her  to  him. 

"But,"  she  protested,  "I  wish  you  wouldn't 
stay  back  on  my  account." 

"It  isn't  on  your  account.  Now  that  John 
Wickson  sees  what  his  treachery  has  cost  the 
Company  he  can  think  only  of  saving  it.  But  we 
are  going  to  get  out  and  we  are  going  to  save  Fort 
Dease.  I  can  think  of  both.  And  I  am  not  going 
to  let  the  work  of  one  spoil  the  chance  of  doing  the 
other.  I  didn't  tell  him  so.  I  couldn't,  I  was  so 
mad.  I  don't  want  to  capture  Solomon  Moses 
now.  I  want  him  to  see  us  in  plenty  of  time  so 
that  he  can  start  off  for  the  timber.  It's  our  only 
chance  to  get  out.  Everything  depends  on  it. 
After  that  we  can  save  Fort  Dease  and  put 
Solomon  out  of  the  way." 

"But  Phil!  You're  not  going  to  kill  him  on 
sight?" 

"I  don't  see  what  else  there  is  to  do." 

"But  that's  a  monstrous  thing.  You  haven't 
the  right  to  take  a  human  life  that  way,  even  if  the 
man  is  insane. 

Phil  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There  are  some  things  you  have  to  do  in  this 
country." 

"But  you  can't!  It's  a  terrible  thing!  It's  not 
right!  It's  not  just!  You  must  promise  that 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  201 

you'll  try  first  to  capture  him,  to  take  him  prisoner 
and  turn  him  over  to  the  proper  authorities.  If 
he's  insane  he  is  not  at  fault." 

"What  would  I  do  with  him  if  I  did  capture  him 
alive  ?  He  would  be  a  constant  source  of  danger 
to  you  and  a  burden  that  might  prevent  our  get- 
ting out." 

"No,  you  must  promise  you  won't." 

It  was  the  first  time  Phil  had  ever  been  asked 
for  a  promise  and  it  was  the  first  thing  Joyce  had 
ever  asked  of  him. 

"All  right,"  he  said  after  a  moment.     "I'll  try." 

Dawn  came  a  half-hour  later  and  they  started 
along  the  shore.  Phil  had  no  way  of  knowing  how 
close  he  might  be  to  the  island  of  spruce  in  which 
the  Indian  had  his  camp  but  he  had  not  gone 
more  than  a  mile  before  it  appeared  ahead  of 
him.  He  hurried  on  until  he  struck  a  fresh 
snowshoe  trail  leading  away  from  the  shore. 

"It's  just  a  mile  from  here,"  he  said  when  he 
stopped  the  dogs  and  went  back  to  the  first  tobog- 
gan for  his  snowshoes.  "Joyce,  you  go  ahead  of 
this  team.  Here  are  Wickson's  snowshoes.  Don't 
keep  too  close  when  we  are  near  the  camp.  I'll  go 
ahead." 

He  called  loudly  to  the  dogs  to  follow  him  and 
plunged  up  the  bank,  Wickson's  rifle  in  his  hands. 
Half  way  to  the  island  of  spruce  he  called  sharply 
to  his  dogs  and  a  little  later  turned  and  struck  at 
one  with  his  fist.  The  poor  brute,  which  had  been 
toiling  patiently,  yelped  in  fright  and  astonish- 


202  PENITENTIARY  POST 

ment  as  it  sprang  to  one  side  while  the  wheel  dog, 
which  protested  whenever  any  member  of  the  team 
was  punished,  sat  back  on  his  haunches  and 
howled. 

"That  will  give  him  a  start,  unless  he's  on  one 
of  his  meat  drunks,"  Phil  thought  as  he  went  on 
again. 

Two  hundred  yards  from  the  edge  of  the  timber 
he  halted  again. 

"I'm  not  going  to  take  the  chance  that  he  is 
lying  in  the  brush  with  a  gun,"  he  called  back  to 
Joyce.  "I'm  going  to  make  a  circle  and  see  if  he 
has  gone." 

He  swung  out  to  the  left  until  he  was  able  to  see 
the  bare,  white  waste  on  the  other  side  of  the 
spruce.  Then,  when  he  stopped  to  watch,  he 
caught  a  black  dot  on  the  drifts  far  ahead  of  him 
and  speeding  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"He's  gone!"  he  called  to  the  others.  "He's 
started  back  for  the  timber  country.  Now  we've 
got  a  trail  that  will  take  us  out." 

Eagerly  they  pushed  ahead  and  in  five  minutes 
the  teams  were  halted  beside  the  wigwam  in  which 
Phil  had  been  held  prisoner.  Phil  dived  inside  at 
once  and  began  to  paw  over  the  pile  of  furs  in  the 
rear.  Wickson  sitting  on  his  toboggan,  Joyce 
watching  the  dogs,  they  heard  him  call.  The 
next  moment  he  came  out  dragging  a  hind  quarter 
of  caribou. 

"We  won't  starve  yet!"  he  exclaimed.  "And 
we'll  have  some  right  now.  There's  a  fire  still 


THE  WHITE  DESERT  203 

going  inside  and  it  won't  take  long  to  fry  a  few 
steaks." 

"You're  going  right  on,  aren't  you?"  asked 
Wickson. 

"Of  course.  We've  got  to  let  him  know  we're 
after  him.  Otherwise  he  might  double  back." 

All  morning  the  fleeing  black  dot  on  the  great 
snow  plain  was  in  sight.  The  crust  was  hard  and 
firm,  having  been  packed  by  the  wind  and  stiffened 
by  the  intense  cold,  and  with  his  long,  narrow, 
turned-up  snowshoes  Phil  was  able  to  maintain 
a  good  pace,  while  the  dogs,  with  their  compara- 
tively light  loads,  followed  easily. 

Contrary  to  Phil's  expectation,  Solomon's  snow- 
shoes  did  not  leave  a  well-marked  trail.  The  crust 
was  too  hard,  and  it  was  only  in  little  patches  of 
snow  that  had  lodged  in  the  depressions  that  the 
path  of  the  fleeing  Indian  could  be  seen. 

When  the  sun  was  up  the  wind  began  to  blow 
and  soon  even  the  few  snowshoe  impressions  be- 
gan to  fade.  Phil  looked  ahead  anxiously.  Sol- 
omon had  reached  the  black  line  which  marked  the 
beginning  of  the  stunted  spruce,  the  tops  of  which 
barely  showed  above  the  surface  of  the  snow. 
Against  such  a  background,  and  at  that  distance, 
he  could  no  longer  be  seen. 

Phil  glanced  back  and  saw  that  the  spruce  island 
near  the  bay  was  still  visible.  It  was  his  last 
landmark.  If  he  went  on,  if  the  sky  became 
clouded,  he  would  be  completely  lost  before  night. 
If  the  wind  continued  to  wipe  out  the  faint  im- 


204  PENITENTIARY  POST 

prints  of  Solomon's  snowshoes  there  would  be 
nothing  to  guide  him. 

He  stopped  the  dogs  as  if  for  one  of  his  usual 
breathing  spells  but  he  did  not  go  back  to  sit  down 
on  Joyce's  toboggan.  Instead,  he  kept  looking 
ahead,  weighing  the  chances,  trying  to  reach  a 
decision.  If  he  pressed  on  and  lost  the  trail  it 
would  be  certain  death  for  all  three.  He  could 
never  hope  to  cross  the  barren  waste  unguided. 
Even  if  he  did  cross  it,  he  would  be  little  better  off. 

To  turn  back  offered  no  better  alternative.  He 
could  only  return  to  Solomon's  camp,  or  the  site  of 
Fort  Dease,  and  start  out  anew  but  with  no  better 
chance  of  reaching  any  place  and  with  less  food. 
As  Phil  realized  this  he  looked  across  the  deso- 
late waste  before  him  and  shivered.  To  go  back 
meant  to  delay  the  end.  To  go  on  brought  it 
nearer.  He  could  picture  them  wandering  out 
there  on  the  white  plain  until  starved  and  frozen. 
He  didn't  care  for  himself,  and  he  did  not  think  of 
Wickson,  but  the  thought  of  the  torture  in  store 
for  Joyce  was  more  than  he  could  bear. 

He  hesitated;  turned  back.  As  he  was  about 
to  swing  out  and  wheel  the  team  he  glanced  again 
toward  the  place  where  he  had  last  seen  the  Indian. 
Beyond  the  black  line  of  the  first  stunted  bushes, 
in  a  clear  space  no  larger  than  his  hand,  it  seemed, 
there  appeared  for  an  instant  a  crawling  speck 
against  the  white  snow. 

"I'm  a  fool,"  he  muttered  as  he  started  forward 
again.  ,"  It's  the  only  chance.  Come  on,  puppies." 


CHAPTER  XVI 
SOLOMON'S  TRAIL 

A  LITTLE  after  noon  Phil  reached  the  first 
of  the  dwarfed  growth  that  showed  above 
the  surface  of  the  snow.  For  more  than 
an  hour  there  had  not  been  a  trace  of  Solomon 
Moses  and  he  had  been  guided  entirely  by  the 
little  patch  of  white  he  had  seen  beyond  the  black 
line. 

Once  in  the  brush,  however,  Phil  struck  some- 
thing that  was  both  a  difficulty  and  an  incalculable 
benefit.  Sheltered  by  the  spruce,  the  snow  had 
not  been  packed  so  firmly  by  the  wind.  The  sur- 
face became  softer  and  soon  Phil  was  walking  in 
six  inches  of  it.  Sometimes  drifts  two  feet  deep 
were  piled  up.  Since  the  last  storm  there  had  been 
no  severe  winds  accompanied  by  low  temperatures 
to  pack  and  stiffen  the  snow,  and  the  last  fall  still 
lay  loosely  on  top. 

Eagerly  Phil  pressed  on  toward  the  opening 
which  he  had  seen  the  Indian  cross.  There  he 
would  find  the  trail  if  he  was  ever  to  find  it,  and 
from  there  he  must  continue  with  as  few  rests  as 
possible  until  he  reached  the  permanent  camp  of 
Solomon  Moses  in  his  old  hunting-ground. 

The  Indian's  trail  was  there  and  Phil  swung  into 
205 


206  PENITENTIARY  POST 

it  with  a  fresh  burst  of  speed.  Though  he  had 
travelled  all  night  and  all  day,  he  kept  on  with  only 
short  rests  until  darkness  finally  compelled  a  halt. 

Joyce,  who  had  been  riding  almost  continuously, 
did  most  of  the  work  of  making  camp.  Phil  did 
not  realize  his  great  weariness  until  he  stopped 
and  begun  to  chill.  He  unharnessed  the  dogs 
while  Joyce  dug  a  great  hole  in  the  snow  and 
gathered  brush  for  a  fire.  When  everything  was 
done  except  the  cooking  she  insisted  on  Phil 
sitting  down  while  she  attended  to  that,  and  the 
next  morning  she  was  up  and  had  breakfast  ready 
before  he  wakened. 

As  she  worked  there  beside  the  fire  in  the  dark- 
ness she  was  conscious  of  being  watched  and 
glanced  up  to  see  Wickson  looking  at  her. 

"Good  morning,"  she  whispered.  "Your  ankle 
better?" 

"Yes,  thanks,  but  still  useless." 

Joyce  touched  her  lips  with  a  finger  and  mo- 
tioned toward  Phil. 

"I  know,"  Wickson  whispered.  "He  needs  the 
sleep.  It  was  a  great  day's  work  he  did  yesterday. 
I  didn't  think  he  could  last  it  through." 

Joyce  turned  to  her  boiling  tea  and  simmering 
meat  with  a  sudden,  inexplicable  feeling  of  friend- 
liness toward  the  injured  man.  At  first  she  be- 
lieved it  was  because  they  were  equal  partners  in 
the  face  of  a  great  danger.  But  they  had  been 
before.  As  she  puzzled  over  the  situation,  pre- 
tending to  be  busy  with  the  kettle  of  meat,  she 


SOLOMON'S  TRAIL  207 

realized  that  it  was  a  change  in  Wickson  himself. 
For  the  first  time  he  had  looked  at  her  without  that 
disturbing  light  in  his  eyes.  For  the  first  time 
since  that  dinner  in  Savant  House  she  did  not  feel 
uncomfortable  in  his  presence. 

Wondering,  she  glanced  at  him  again,  but  this 
time  he  was  not  watching  her. 

"Tell  me,  honestly,"  she  said,  "what  our 
chances  are.  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  to  help?" 

"Our  chances  are  good,  if  Boynton  can  stand  the 
pace,"  Wickson  replied  at  once.  "He  did  the 
only  thing  we  could  do,  and  you  can  help  by  going 
ahead  once  in  a  while  and  giving  him  a  ride. 
That's  the  only  thing  I'm  afraid  of,  his  playing 
out.  He  didn't  start  in  good  shape,  but  he's  young 
and  a  man  can  stand  a  lot  of  punishment  when  he 
has  to." 

Phil  did  ride  for  an  hour  altogether  that  day, 
while  Joyce,  with  Wickson's  snowshoes,  went 
ahead  of  the  dogs.  Solomon  Moses'  trail  was 
unmistakable  but  it  had  one  disconcerting  feature. 
When  they  camped  that  second  night  they  had  not 
found  a  place  where  the  Indian  had  stopped  to 
sleep.  He  had  gone  on  without  a  rest  for  a  day 
and  a  night^  and  as  he  travelled  quite  as  fast  as 
they  he  must  be  a  day  ahead  of  them,  perhaps 
thirty  or  more  miles. 

Wickson,  who  had  watched  every  foot  of  the 
trail  from  his  seat  on  the  toboggan,  commented  on 
this  fact  that  night,  and  Phil  looked  anxiously  at 
the  sky,  as  he  had  done  often  in  the  afternoon. 


208  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"I  know  it,"  he  said,  "and  the  only  thing  we 
can  hope  for  is  that  it  doesn't  snow  until  we  reach 
the  spruce.  Once  in  the  timber  we  can  find  his 
trail,  even  if  there  is  a  foot  of  snow  on  it.'* 

"And  out  here?"  asked  Joyce. 

"It  would  be  hopeless  in  an  hour  or  two,  less  if 
there  should  be  a  wind  with  the  snow." 

It  did  not  snow  that  night  nor  the  next  day, 
though  the  clouds  still  hung  low.  In  the  middle 
of  the  forenoon  Joyce  was  leading  while  Phil  took  a 
breathing  spell  on  the  toboggan.  For  a  mile  the 
trail  led  through  thick  brush,  much  of  which  was 
taller  and  more  sturdy  than  that  through  which 
they  had  been  travelling. 

"Boynton!  Your  rifle!  Quick!"  cried  Wick- 
son. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Phil  as  he  floundered  ahead 
through  the  drifts  without  his  snowshoes. 

Joyce,  at  Wickson's  call,  had  drawn  back  in 
sudden  fear  and  was  looking  uncertainly  about 
her. 

"There's  a  camp  ahead,"  whispered  Wickson  as 
Phil  passed  him.  "Be  careful.  He  may  be 
there." 

"Come  back,  Joyce,"  commanded  Phil  as  he 
started  ahead.  "Get  behind  Wickson  and  keep 
low." 

He  slipped  into  the  brush  at  one  side  of  the  trail 
and  began  to  work  forward.  At  last,  by  bending 
down,  he  could  see  a  skin  tent  just  ahead. 

His  rifle  ready,  he  moved  nearer,  stopping  every 


SOLOMON'S  TRAIL  209 

few  feet  to  look  around  and  to  listen.  But  there 
was  no  sound  and  no  movement  and  he  reached  the 
camp  without  seeing  any  indication  of  the  Indian's 
presence. 

He  was  at  the  rear,  but  from  his  final  position 
he  could  see  the  snowshoe  trail  leading  up  from 
the  direction  in  which  he  had  come,  while  on  the 
other  side  the  webbed  impressions  went  on  toward 
the  west.  Solomon  had  come  and  gone. 

Still  moving  cautiously  and  ready  with  his  rifle, 
Phil  went  around  to  the  front  of  the  wigwam  and 
looked  in.  It  was  empty. 

"  Bring  up  the  dogs,"  he  called.     "He  has  gone." 

He  threw  back  the  flap  over  the  door  and  en- 
tered. The  ashes  in  the  centre  were  still  warm  and 
one  coal  showed  when  he  blew  upon  them. 

"What  is  it?"  called  Joyce  from  outside. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  Phil  answered  as  he  began  a 
search. 

The  wigwam  was  much  smaller  than  that  in 
which  he  had  been  held  prisoner.  Placed  near  the 
door  where  they  could  be  seen  at  once  were  two 
bones  freshly  stripped.  But  nowhere  was  there 
any  caribou.  He  picked  up  the  bones,  crawled  out 
through  the  low  door  and  stood  up. 

"Any  meat?"  asked  Wickson. 

"Only  these,"  Phil  answered  holding  up  the 
bones.  "Left  to  remind  us  that  he  has  meat  and 
we  haven't  much.  But  they  may  be  welcome  in 
soup  later.  Solomon  stopped  long  enough  to 
have  a  good  meal." 


210  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"Then  we  have  lost  him!"  cried  Joyce.  "If 
this  is  his  camp  we'll  never  find  him." 

"This  is  only  a  relay  camp,"  Phil  exclaimed. 
"I  might  have  known  he  would  have  something 
like  this  between  the  timber  and  his  shore  camp. 
This  is  where  he  came  for  meat  when  he  had  me 
tied  in  the  other  wigwam." 

"Let's  get  along,  then,"  interrupted  Wickson. 
"It  hasn't  helped  any  to  find  it." 

"It  did  help,"  Phil  replied.  "It  delayed  Solo- 
mon and  he  is  no  more  than  six  hours  ahead  of  us 
now.  There  was  a  coal  or  two  still  left  in  the  ashes, 
and  the  coals  from  this  small  spruce  don't  last  long. 
He  probably  started  from  here  at  daylight  this 
morning." 

Wickson  looked  at  the  low  clouds  and  noted  the 
direction  of  the  wind. 

"That  gain  may  help,  but  I  doubt  it,"  he  said. 
"We're  not  more  than  half-way,  if  his  hunting 
district  is  somewhere  near  Berens  River,  and  if  it 
snows  and  blows  before  we  get  into  the  thick  spruce 
we'll  never  track  him." 

Phil  knew  as  well  as  the  district  manager  what  a 
snow-storm  would  do  to  them.  With  the  first  flake 
the  gain  of  a  day  and  a  half  over  the  Indian  would 
be  valueless.  Without  his  track  to  guide  them 
there  was  no  possibility  of  their  ever  reaching  a  place 
where  they  could  obtain  food.  It  meant  the  end. 

They  started  at  once,  Phil  in  the  lead  and  shov- 
ing his  snowshoes  ahead  savagely.  Tired  as  he 


SOLOMON'S  TRAIL  211 

was,  already  beginning  to  feel  the  results  of  half 
rations,  the  dread  of  the  coming  snow  aroused  an- 
ger rather  than  fear.  He  glared  at  the  clouds  and 
dared  them  to  open  their  heavy  bins,  and  all  the 
time  he  kept  increasing  his  pace,  scorning  the  usual 
stops  for  rests,  driving  himself  on  through  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day.  At  last  darkness  and  weari- 
ness combined  to  send  him  stumbling  along  the 
sides  of  the  trail  and  he  called  a  halt. 

Phil  went  to  sleep  while  Joyce  cooked  supper. 
She  gathered  the  wood,  dug  out  a  hole  for  the  beds, 
assisted  Wickson  to  a  place  beside  the  fire,  melted 
snow  for  the  tea  and  set  meat  to  simmering  in  a 
kettle.  The  brush  burned  quickly  and  she  spent 
much  time  gathering  enough  to  do  what  little 
cooking  there  was  to  be  done. 

All  the  time  Wickson  watched  her  closely  and 
Joyce  knew  that  he  did.  But  as  in  the  morning 
she  felt  something  different  in  his  scrutiny.  Once 
she  stole  a  glance  at  him  when  her  face  was  in  the 
shadow  and  saw  that,  while  his  eyes  were  upon 
her,  his  thoughts  were  not.  He  seemed  to  be 
planning,  scheming,  turning  something  over  and 
over  in  his  mind,  and  the  tense  stare  and  furrowed 
brow,  the  forceful  attitude  and  the  lack  of  un- 
certainty in  his  expression,  dismayed  Joyce  more 
than  anything  she  had  ever  known  about  him  be- 
fore. 

Her  old  fears  and  disquietude  returned.  As  she 
had  always  believed,  the  man  was  ruthless.  He 
sat  there  planning  to  resume  the  battle  the  minute 


212  PENITENTIARY  POST 

the  three  were  safe  again.  While  others  toiled  and 
fought  for  him  he  devised  fresh  means  of  ruining 
the  happiness  which  she  and  Phil  deserved. 

Joyce  was  not  the  sort  of  woman  who  would  have 
feared  Wickson  or  any  other  man  under  normal 
circumstances.  She  was  intelligent  enough  to 
know  that  any  one  would  be  powerless  to  ac- 
complish such  a  thing.  But  up  there  in  the  North 
country  everything  was  different.  This  man  was 
like  the  land  in  which  he  lived.  He  was  as  cruel  as 
the  cold,  as  ruthless  as  a  blizzard,  as  unswerving  and 
as  insatiable  as  the  snarling  water  of  the  great  rivers. 
Mercy  was  absent  in  him  as  in  the  land  itself. 

And  it  was  toward  this  that  they  were  strug- 
gling. She  and  Phil  together  were  taking  this  man 
to  a  place  of  safety  that  again  he  might  attempt  to 
wreck  their  happiness.  Angrily  she  poked  at  the 
meat  in  the  kettle  with  a  stick.  Was  it  worth  it? 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  die  out  there  on  the  great 
white  desert  where  they  could  be  together,  where 
they  could  be  sure  of  each  other,  than  to  struggle 
on  that  this  man  might  win  in  the  end  ? 

She  did  not  know  what  he  might  do.  Her 
reason  told  her  that  in  reality  he  could  accomplish 
nothing  against  her  love  for  Phil.  And  yet  all  she 
had  seen  of  the  man,  all  she  had  heard  of  him,  all 
the  things  she  had  felt  of  him  served  to  oppress 
with  a  certainty  that  his  will  would  prevail. 
There  was  no  law,  no  convention,  no  power  of  any 
sort,  to  which  he  need  give  heed.  Like  the  North 
itself,  he  would  conquer  in  the  end. 


SOLOMON'S  TRAIL  213 

And  then,  swinging  down  slowly,  lazily,  turning 
to  dart  upward  and  melt  in  the  warm  air  above  the 
fire,  came  the  first  flakes  of  the  storm.  Joyce,  her 
former  fears  instantly  forgotten  in  the  face  of  this 
immediate  terror,  turned  pleadingly  to  the  man 
she  had  just  declared  to  be  without  mercy. 

"Is  it  the  end?"  her  eyes  asked  plainly. 

Wickson  nodded  but  did  not  speak.  His  eyes 
shone  with  fury.  Silently  he  shook  his  fist  at  the 
sky.  Crippled,  helpless,  he  sat  there  defying  the 
North  to  do  its  worst.  There  was  no  fear,  no  sup- 
plication, in  his  attitude,  and  as  she  looked  Joyce 
found  herself  admiring  the  courage  of  the  man 
while  she  dreaded  his  power. 

The  snowflakes,  falling  thickly  now,  struck 
Phil's  face  and  wakened  him.  He  sat  up  slowly, 
still  dazed,  and  then  the  significance  of  the  storm 
reached  him.  He  glanced  quickly  at  the  others 
and  then  spread  his  hand  before  the  little  blaze. 

No  one  spoke.  Joyce  forgot  the  meat  simmer- 
ing in  the  kettle.  Phil  continued  to  stare  into  the 
fire  and  Wickson  at  the  snow  as  it  dropped  into  the 
zone  of  firelight.  There  was  no  bluster,  no  noise, 
no  furore  about  the  storm.  A  summer  evening 
could  not  have  been  more  peaceful,  and  yet  each 
softly  fluttering  flake  spelled  the  end  for  those 
three  out  there  in  the  middle  of  that  trackless, 
treeless  waste. 

At  last  Joyce  lifted  the  kettle  from  the  fire  and 
they  began  to  eat  supper.  It  was  the  first  meal 
since  morning  and  they  were  very  hungry.  But 


214  PENITENTIARY  POST 

even  the  food,  welcome  as  it  was,  failed  to  rouse 
them  from  their  despondency,  and  as  soon  as  the 
last  shred  of  meat  was  gone  and  the  last  drop  of 
broth  was  drained,  each  turned  to  his  robes  and 
spread  them  beside  the  dying  fire. 

But,  tired  as  they  were,  none  of  them  slept  for  a 
time.  The  fire  quickly  died  down  and  left  the 
camp  in  darkness.  At  first  there  were  spots  where 
each  lay,  where  the  fire  had  been  built,  where  the 
toboggans  had  been  turned  on  edge  beside  them. 
But  gradually  the  black  shapes  became  dim  and  in 
half  an  hour  everything  lay  white  except  a  small 
place  where  a  few  lingering  coals  still  spluttered 
as  the  snow  struck  them. 

The  dogs,  tied  to  the  dwarfed  growth  about  the 
camp,  had  been  restless  at  the  beginning  of  the 
storm  but  gradually  they  dug  nests  in  the  drifts 
and  went  to  sleep.  The  spot  was  as  quiet  as  any 
other  on  that  vast,  lifeless  plain. 

Out  of  that  tomb-like  silence  there  burst  upon 
the  three  people  in  the  camp  the  first  notes  of  a 
demoniacal  shriek  that  rose  and  fell  with  a  mock- 
ing cadence.  It  ended  in  a  wild  burst  of  laughter 
and  a  gleeful  chuckle  that  brought  a  chill  even  to 
Wickson's  heart  as  he  threw  back  his  robe  and  sat 
up. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WICKSON  TELLS   OF   HIS   LOVE 

THAT'S  not  a  wolf,"  whispered  Wickson. 
"What  is  it?  Even  the  dogs  are  scared. 
They  never  answered." 

"It's  the  weeteego,"  answered  Joyce,  her  voice 
trembling  and  hoarse. 

"Take  the  rifle  and  get  after  him,  Boynton," 
commanded  the  district  manager.  "He  isn't  far." 

"I  will  not!"  retorted  Phil*  exultantly.  "That 
yelling  nearly  drove  me  crazy  last  month,  but  I 
never  heard  a  sweeter  sound  than  it  was  just  now." 

"  Sweeter ! "  exclaimed  Wickson,  angrily.  "  He'll 
come  in  here  and  murder  us  before  we  can  make  a 
move." 

Phil's  elation  vanished,  but  not  because  of  what 
Wickson  had  said. 

"I'm  afraid  it  won't  help,"  he  said,  "though 
there  is  no  danger.  You  don't  understand  Solo- 
mon Moses.  I  told  you  his  life  work  is  to  starve  a 
Hudson's  Bay  Company  man.  He  is  going  to 
stick  around  here  and  chuckle  because  he  thinks 
we're  finished  now  for  good.  You  should  have 
seen  the  joy  in  his  face  when  he  told  me  how  he 
would  watch  me  die.  He  can't  resist  coming  to 
mock  us." 

215 


216  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"But  if  he  stays  until  the  storm  is  over  we  can 
track  him!"  cried  Joyce. 

"That's  what  I  first  thought  of  but  he's  too 
clever  for  that.  He's  banking  on  a  long  storm, 
two  days  probably,  with  a  wind  at  the  end  of  it. 
He'll  stay  out  there  and  laugh  at  us  until  mid- 
night. Then  he'll  slip  off  and  by  daylight  there 
won't  be  a  sign  of  his  tracks." 

Again  the  howl  burst  upon  them,  ending  as  be- 
fore in  a  wild  chuckle  of  delight. 

"The  thing  to  do  is  to  keep  watch  and  start  as 
soon  as  he  does,"  declared  Wickson.  "It's  our 
only  chance." 

"And  Solomon  will  see  that  we  don't  get  it," 
retorted  Phil.  "You  know  there  is  no  chance 
whatever  of  finding  him  out  in  that,"  and  he 
swung  his  arm  at  the  brush  and  the  darkness  and 
the  thickly  falling  snow. 

Tired  as  they  were,  there  was  no  sleep  for  any  of 
them  so  long  as  Solomon  Moses  howled.  Some- 
times he  came  so  close  to  camp  that  all  three  started 
as  if  he  were  upon  them.  Sometimes  he  sounded 
as  if  he  were  far  away.  He  howled  to  the  right 
and  the  left,  to  the  front  and  the  rear.  He  re- 
treated and  advanced,  and  once  after  he  had  been 
barely  heard  there  was  a  long  silence. 

"He's  gone!"  exclaimed  Phil.     "That  ends  us." 

He  turned  to  his  robe,  shook  off  the  snow,  and 
prepared  to  go  to  sleep.  Joyce  followed  but 
Wickson,  under  the  spell  of  the  demoniacal  shrieks 
for  the  first  time,  remained  sitting  on  his  robe. 


WICKSON  TELLS  OF  HIS  LOVE    217 

At  last,  just  as  Phil  had  dropped  off  to  sleep, 
the  howl  came  from  close  by.  Phil  and  Joyce  sat 
up  again,  expectant,  encouraged. 

For  a  long  time  they  sat  there.  Every  few 
minutes  Solomon  shrieked  his  joy  at  them  until 
to  Wickson,  at  least,  it  became  maddening.  Phil 
only  laughed. 

"I  hope  he  forgets  himself,"  he  said,  "and  waits 
until  daylight.  If  he  only  would,  we'd  have  a 
chance." 

Joyce  arranged  her  robe  about  her  shoulders  and 
shivered. 

"It's  getting  cold,"  she  said,  and  her  teeth 
chattered.  "It  was  warm  when  the  storm  be- 
gan." 

Phil  glanced  up  at  the  sky,  saw  that  the  flakes 
of  snow  were  smaller  and  less  in  number.  Sud- 
denly he  sprang  to  his  feet.  As  he  did  so  Solomon 
howled  again,  close  by  this  time.  But  the  star- 
tling thing  was  the  new  note,  a  note  of  terror,  that 
dominated  the  shriek.  It  was  terror  and  dis- 
may and  defeat,  all  told  in  a  wild,  wailing  cry. 
The  noise  of  crashing  brush  came  to  those  in  the 
camp  and  then  all  was  still. 

"What  is  it?"  whispered  Joyce. 

"See!"  cried  Phil,  pointing  toward  the  north. 
"That's  what  got  him." 

The  others  looked  up  to  see  a  bright  star  shining 
through  a  rift  in  the  clouds.  As  they  stared  an- 
other appeared. 

"The  wind  changed!"  Phil  continued,  excitedly. 


218  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"  It's  clearing  off.  We'll  get  out  yet.  We'll  be  on 
his  track  at  daylight." 

When  the  dawn  came  they  had  started,  pushing 
on  toward  the  west,  again  only  six  hours  behind. 
The  day  was  bright  and  cold,  Solomon's  trail  plain 
and  fresh,  and  they  made  good  time  until  dark.  The 
next  day  it  was  the  same,  and  when  they  camped 
that  night  they  knew  that  they  would  be  within 
the  shelter  of  the  timber  the  next  forenoon. 

This  knowledge  was  accepted  differently  by  each 
of  the  three.  To  Wickson,  brooding  all  day  over 
thoughts  he  shared  with  no  one,  it  seemed  almost  a 
matter  of  indifference.  Joyce,  watching  him  anx- 
iously, trying  vainly  to  read  his  intentions,  felt 
that  it  mattered  little  that  they  had  covered  the 
most  hazardous  part  of  their  journey  if  their 
happiness  was  still  to  be  ruined  by  this  man  of 
implacable  purpose. 

To  Phil  alone  the  nearness  of  the  timber  was  an 
unmixed  relief.  He  alone  seemed  to  realize  what 
it  meant  to  them  in  the  way  of  shelter  from  storms, 
possibilities  of  meat,  and,  best  of  all,  a  clear  trail 
to  the  camp  of  Solomon  Moses.  After  supper  he 
did  not  go  to  sleep  at  once,  as  had  been  his  custom. 
Tired  as  he  was,  he  could  not  refrain  from  sitting 
by  the  fire  and  planning  on  the  next  day. 

"None  of  us  knows  how  near  his  camp  is,"  he 
began.  "We're  liable  to  strike  it  'most  any  time 
after  noon.  I'm  not  looking  for  an  ambush,  but 
I  am  afraid  he  may  destroy  what  meat  he  had  there, 
or  make  off  with  it.': 


WICKSON  TELLS  OF  HIS  LOVE    219 

"But  he  won't  have  time  to  get  far,"  Joyce 
offered. 

"Yes,  because  he  is  a  day  and  a  half  ahead.  He 
didn't  stop  after  he  left  us  that  night  in  the  storm. 
And  he  must  know  that  we're  on  his  trail.  The 
thing  for  us  is  to  figure  out  what  he  will  do." 

"If  his  plan  is  to  starve  us,  as  he  has  been 
trying  to  do,  he'll  destroy  any  food  there  is  in  his 
camp,"  said  Wickson. 

"That's  reasonable,"  said  Phil.  "Then  what 
are  we  to  do?" 

"We're  in  a  territory  where  there  are  other 
Indian  hunters,  and  there  is  a  chance  that  we'll 
run  across  a  hunting  trail." 

"We've  got  to  do  that  anyway,  to  win  through, 
but  the  first  question  is  to  deal  with  Solomon  him- 
self. Then,  when  that's  done,  we've  got  to  get  on 
the  trail  of  some  hunter  at  once.  We  haven't 
much  meat  left,  and  there  is  only  one  more  meal 
for  the  dogs,  half  a  meal  at  that.  When  we  find  a 
hunter  we've  got  to  send  him  for  another.  We've 
got  to  get  messengers  to  all  the  Fort  Dease 
Indians  and  tell  them  that  the  weeteego  is  dead  and 
won't  bother  them  again.  We've  got  to  get  a 
messenger  to  Fort  Berens  and  have  a  boatload  of 
supplies  start  up  the  bay  as  soon  as  the  ice  goes  out, 
and  I've  got  to  get  back  to  Dease  and  be  ready 
for  the  hunters  when  they  do  come." 

"You!     Back  to  Fort  Dease!" 

Joyce  looked  at  him  in  consternation. 

"Of  course,"  said  Phil.     "I'm  the  one  who  gave 


220  PENITENTIARY  POST 

out  the  debt  and  as  the  books  are  burned,  I'm  the 
only  one  who  can  collect  the  fur." 

"Then  I'm  going  with  you." 

It  was  the  first  time  Phil  had  even  considered 
where  Joyce  should  go,  once  they  were  in  a  place  of 
safety,  and  he  did  not  answer. 

"There  is  no  other  place  for  me  to  go,"  she  pro- 
tested. 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  said  Phil.  "You  can 
get  back  to  Savant  House  in  the  summer.  But 
we've  got  to  handle  Solomon  Moses  first.  I'm 
going  to  keep  ahead  to-morrow  so  that  if  he  has 
any  trap  you  won't  get  caught.  I  don't  think 
there  will  be,  but  we  want  to  play  as  safe  as 
possible.  After  we  get  hold  of  him,  we  can  plan 
the  next  move." 

Phil  had  ignored  the  fact  that  Wickson  was  his 
superior  officer,  that  he  should  look  to  him  for 
orders  and  suggestions.  Now  that  they  were 
nearing  possible  safety,  too,  his  thoughts  turned 
at  once  to  what  must  be  done  for  the  Company. 
His  own  future,  and  that  of  Joyce,  must  depend 
on  his  work,  and,  while  he  felt  that  he  was  just  in 
his  charge  that  Wickson  was  responsible  for  all 
the  trouble,  the  fact  remained  that  ruin  had  come 
to  Fort  Dease  while  it  was  in  his  custody  and  that 
he  must  regain  as  much  as  possible  of  what  had 
been  lost. 

Now  that  he  was  about  to  act,  now  that  he  was 
the  aggressor,  he  forgot  his  weariness  and  the 


WICKSON  TELLS  OF  HIS  LOVE    221 

dangers  that  still  lay  ahead.  He  became  more 
than  ever  the  leader,  the  confident  director  of  their 
activities,  and  he  was  eager  for  morning  to  come. 

Joyce  saw  this,  felt  proud  because  of  it,  and  in 
her  exultation  she  glanced  involuntarily  at  Wick- 
son.  The  district  manager  read  her  thoughts 
instantly  and,  to  her  surprise,  he  grinned  good- 
humouredly. 

"You're  right,  Boynton,"  he  agreed.  "And 
I  guess  I'll  be  on  my  feet  in  time  to  help.  If  you 
can  carry  things  through  as  you  have  planned, 
nothing  more  can  be  expected.  The  only  weak 
point  is  my  own  suggestion.  Everything  depends 
upon  our  getting  food  in  Solomon's  camp,  if  we 
find  it,  and  then  in  running  across  the  trail  of  a 
hunter.  That  last  is  not  so  easy  as  it  sounds. 
There  are  not  many  Indians  ahead  of  us  and  it's 
going  to  be  luck  if  we  find  one  before  we  starve." 

"We've  run  greater  risks  than  that  so  far,  and 
there's  Solomon  to  deal  with  first,"  said  Phil  as 
he  prepared  his  robe  for  the  night. 

He  tucked  himself  in  beside  the  fire  and  was 
asleep  at  once.  Joyce  and  Wickson  still  sat  facing 
the  blaze,  for  they  had  not  driven  themselves  to 
exhaustion  as  had  Phil. 

In  the  presence  of  only  the  district  manager 
the  girl's  exultation  soon  vanished.  Despite  the 
man's  friendly  smile,  despite  his  submission  to  all 
that  Phil  had  planned,  her  fear  of  him  only  in- 
creased. He  was  letting  Phil  do  the  work,  letting 
him  get  them  out  to  a  place  of  safety  and  save  Fort 


222  PENITENTIARY  POST 

Dease.  But  what  after  that?  He  had  sent  Phil 
to  Penitentiary  Post  to  get  him  out  of  the  way, 
had  given  him  an  inconsequential  station  when 
his  abilities  deserved  the  best  opportunity.  Why 
would  he  not  do  something  worse  once  he  had  re- 
turned to  Savant  House.  It  would  be  easily  pos- 
sible for  him  to  ruin  Phil's  future  with  a  report 
of  the  winter  that  was  properly  coloured,  or  un- 
coloured.  He  need  not  lie.  He  need  only  omit 
part  of  the  truth  to  damn  Phil  forever. 

Wickson  moved  carefully  to  one  side  and  began 
to  spread  out  his  robe.  He  had  not  been  looking 
at  Joyce,  did  not  seem  to  know  that  she  was  there. 
His  face  was  hard  and  resolute,  had  that  expression 
she  feared  more  than  any  other.  As  he  lay  down 
he  saw  Joyce  staring  at  him. 

"Wait  until  I'm  on  my  feet!"  he  exclaimed  as  he 
pulled  the  robe  over  his  face. 

As  usual,  they  were  under  way  at  daybreak  the 
next  morning.  Phil  was  ahead  with  Wickson's 
rifle,  the  only  weapon  they  had.  The  district 
manager  and  Joyce  rode  on  the  toboggans.  Two 
hours  took  them  well  into  the  spruce  forest. 

"I'll  go  on  ahead  now,"  said  Phil  as  he  stopped 
for  his  first  breathing  spell.  "Keep  about  half 
an  hour  behind  me.  We  may  not  reach  his  camp 
to-day,  and  it  may  be  only  a  few  miles  from  here. 
If  I  see  any  signs  of  him  I'll  lay  something  across  the 
trail.  You  stop  there  until  I  call  or  come  for  you." 

Joyce  and  Wickson  waited  the  half  hour  and 
then  spoke  to  the  dogs.  There  was  a  fair  trail 


WICKSON  TELLS  OF  HIS  LOVE    223 

and  the  teams  needed  only  an  occasional  urging. 
Joyce  was  in  the  lead  and  as  she  sat  on  the  tobog- 
gan she  looked  ahead  constantly,  while  always  her 
ears  were  ready  for  the  sound  of  a  rifle  shot  or 
Phil's  voice. 

But  nothing  happened.  Nothing  lay  across 
their  path.  Hour  after  hour  passed.  And  then 
at  noon  Joyce  suddenly  stopped  her  dogs  at  a 
bend  in  the  trail.  Lying  across  it  just  ahead  was 
a  dead  branch  of  a  spruce. 

"Better  go  ahead  and  tie  the  leader,"  said 
Wickson  when  he  saw  what  had  happened.  "We 
don't  want  these  dogs  to  get  a  smell  of  the  camp 
and  stampede  us  into  it  until  Boynton  is  ready." 

Joyce  took  a  chain  from  the  toboggan,  waded 
through  the  snow  to  the  head  dog  and  fastened 
him  to  a  tree.  As  she  was  about  to  turn  back  she 
saw  something  on  the  smooth  surface  beside  the 
trail  and  went  forward.  Traced  in  the  snow  with 
a  stick  was  a  message  from  Phil: 

Smelled  smoke.     Close. 

"What  is  it?"  called  Wickson. 

Joyce  motioned  silence  and  waded  back  to  his 
toboggan. 

"We  mustn't  make  any  noise,"  she  said.  "Phil 
wrote  in  the  snow  that  he  had  smelled  smoke 
just  ahead." 

"The  wind  is  this  way,  but  it  means  he  is  close. 
We  ought  to  get  action  soon." 

Joyce  brushed  the  snow  from  a  windfall  a  few 


224  PENITENTIARY  POST 

feet  away  and  sat  down  facing  the  place  where 
Phil  had  gone.  For  a  time  she  waited  quietly 
but  as  the  minutes  slipped  by  and  there  was  no 
sound,  nothing  to  tell  what  was  happening  in  the 
forest  ahead,  she  became  restless.  Once  she 
glanced  at  Wickson  and  saw  him  watching  her 
with  a  queer  smile  about  his  mouth. 

"Hard  on  the  nerves,  eh?"  he  asked. 

Joyce  sprang  from  her  seat  and  started  toward 
her  own  toboggan.  He  was  mocking  her,  taunting 
her  with  the  possibilities  of  what  might  be  happen- 
ing ahead  of  them,  and  a  wave  of  anger  and  hatred 
swept  over  her. 

"I  didn't  mean  anything  like  that,"  he  said. 
"Sit  down  again.  I've  been  wanting  to  speak  to 
you." 

"I  don't  know  of  anything  you  can  say  that  will 
interest  me!"  replied  Joyce,  fiercely,  though  she 
was  conscious  of  a  softened  note  in  his  voice  she 
had  never  heard  before. 

"I  think  it  will,"  he  retorted,  harshly  now.  "I 
imagine,  woman-like,  you  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  because  you  and  Boynton  didn't  de- 
sert me  back  there  at  Fort  Dease,  because  you 
have  gone  to  a  lot  of  trouble  in  an  effort  to  save 
my  life,  I'll  be  good  in  the  future?" 

Joyce,  startled  by  the  brutal  frankness  of  the 
question,  only  stared  at  him. 

"What  I  wanted  to  say,"  Wickson  continued, 
"is  that  you  are  mistaken  if  you  do  think  so.  Ever 
since  we  left  Fort  Dease  I've  been  afraid  that  you 


WICKSON  TELLS  OF  HIS  LOVE    225 

would — afraid  that  you  would  expect  something 
of  me. 

"But,"  and  he  hitched  himself  upright  and  struck 
his  knee  with  a  mittened  fist,  "I'm  not  that  sort. 
I  wouldn't  stoop  to  such  a  thing.  It's  not  a  man's 
way.  It's  not  my  way.  If  I  have  ever  wanted 
anything  I  have  gone  after  it.  I  have  won  it.  I 
never  let  any  consideration  except  my  own  ideas 
of  what  is  right  stand  in  my  path.  And  I've 
always  got  what  I  went  after.  You've  probable 
heard  that  since  you've  been  in  the  North  country. 
I  always  win." 

The  last  had  not  been  said  boastingly.  The 
man  had  spoken  merely  as  if  he  were  stating  a  well- 
known  fact,  but  the  significance  of  his  words 
served  only  to  bring  fresh  terror  to  Joyce,  to  leave 
her  standing  there  in  the  snow  staring  at  him, 
hating  him,  fearing  him,  and  wholly  unprepared 
for  his  next  statement. 

"But  I  don't  want  you.  I  thought  I  did.  I 
thought  I  wanted  you  more  than  anything  I  had 
ever  wanted.  That's  why  I  made  that  trip  from 
Savant  House  to  Fort  Dease.  That's  why  I 
started  down  the  shore  looking  for  you  the  minute 
I  read  the  last  word  of  your  note.  And  if  I  still 
wanted  you  I  wouldn't  let  Boynton  or  anything 
Boynton  has  done  for  me,  or  could  do  against  me, 
stand  in  the  way  of  my  having  you.  But  I  don't 
want  you. 

"That's  why  I'm  telling  you  this.  I  don't 
want  you  or  him  to  think  I  quit  a  fight  because 


226  PENITENTIARY  POST 

you  happened  to  do  me  a  good  turn.  I'm  not 
that  sort,  and  if  I  wanted  you  now  I  wouldn't 
give  you  up." 

He  spoke  harshly,  vehemently,  with  a  depth 
of  passion  that  seemed  altogether  out  of  proportion 
with  his  words.  He  was  so  volcanic  in  his  delivery 
that,  despite  the  thought  he  had  conveyed,  Joyce 
still  looked  at  him  in  speechless  apprehension. 

"I  just  wanted  to  make  myself  clear  on  that 
point,"  he  continued,  more  mildly.  "I  wanted 
you  to  know  that  you  have  nothing  more  to  fear 
from  me,  if  it's  fear  you  have  of  me,  and  I  wanted 
you  to  understand  that  it  wasn't  any  softening  on 
my  part,  any  feeling  of  gratitude." 

For  a  moment  Joyce  continued  to  stare.  Her 
apprehension  vanished  as  she  finally  grasped  what 
he  had  said.  A  smile  spread  over  her  face,  cracked 
the  frosted  skin  of  her  cheeks  and  chin.  And  then 
she  burst  into  uncontrolled  laughter. 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  Wickson,  angrily. 
"What's  so  funny?" 

"I  can't  help  it,"  she  managed  to  say  between 
choking  fits  of  mirth.  "It's  all  so — so — I 

"Don't  get  hysterical,"  he  advised. 

"I'm  not.  I you  don't  know  much  about 

women,  do  you?" 

"I  guess  I  know  all  that  any  one  does.  It 
isn't  much." 

"That  proves  it,"  she  replied,  quickly.  "A 
man  who  knows  the  first  thing  about  women  would 


WICKSON  TELLS  OF  HIS  LOVE    227 

never  think  of  saying  what  you  said  to  me.  It's 
insulting,  it's  aggravating,  it's  maddeningly  chal- 
lenging." 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  bit  her  lip. 

"Don't  make  that  mistake  in  my  case,"  he 
growled.  "I  merely  told  you  how  I  felt." 

She  looked  at  him  skeptically  for  a  moment  but 
she  could  not  but  believe  that  the  man  was  sincere 
in  all  the  strange  things  he  had  said.  She  remem- 
bered, too,  that  unaccountable  change  she  had 
felt  in  his  attitude  toward  her  and  the  friendly 
smile  he  had  given  her  while  Phil  was  asleep,  and 
instantly  curiosity  possessed  her. 

"Would  you  mind,"  she  asked,  hesitatingly, 
"mind  explaining  this  sudden — this  sudden 
changer" 

For  the  first  time  she  saw  embarrassment  in 
Wickson's  face.  His  eyes  fell  before  hers  and  he 
did  not  look  up  again  when  he  spoke. 

"There  are  some  things  a  man  doesn't  like  to 
talk  about,"  he  answered,  gruffly. 

But  Joyce,  or  any  other  woman,  would  not  be 
rebuffed  on  such  a  quest. 

"I  ought  to  know  wherein  I  failed,"  she  pro- 
tested. "It's  only  fair  to  me,  since  you  have  been 
so  frank." 

"You  wouldn't  understand." 

"I  would  try  to  understand." 

He  looked  at  her  appraisingly  for  a  moment. 

"Boynton  was  the  cause  of  it  all." 

"Phil!     How?" 


228  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"Oh,  nothing  he  did.  He  couldn't  have  done 
anything  to  change  me.  It  was  something  he  said. 
It  opened  my  eyes,  gave  me  a  new  view  of  myself, 
and  you  weren't  in  that  view,  that's  all." 

It  seemed  final,  and  Joyce,  despite  the  challenge 
of  his  attitude  and  words,  despite  her  insistent 
desire  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  sudden  change 
toward  her,  refrained  from  pressing  the  point. 
She  resumed  her  seat  on  the  windfall,  and  when  she 
looked  at  Wickson  again  he  began  to  speak. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  he  announced. 
"You'll  not  believe  it  all,  but  it's  the  truth,  every 
word  of  it,  and  I'd  rather  have  you  know  than  to 
think  I  have  a  soft  streak. 

"They  say  I  am  a  savage,"  he  continued. 
"They  say  I  was  born  in  the  North  and  that  I'm  as 
hard  as  the  North.  Oh,  they  don't  say  it  to  me, 
but  I  know  they  say  it.  They  think  I'm  all  body, 
that  I  get  ahead  by  the  bulk  of  me.  But  they're 
fools.  I've  got  a  mind,  I  can  use  it,  and  I  can  out- 
think  any  of  them.  They  say  I  bull  into  things 
regardless,  but  I  don't.  I  reason  everything  out. 
Or  I  always  did  until  you  came.  Now  I've 
reasoned  you  out. 

"Not  until  you  came  to  Savant  House  did  I 
ever  go  off  my  head.  I  did  completely  then. 
And  when  I  did,  I  lost  the  two  things  which  have 
meant  most  in  my  life.  You  did  that  to  me." 

He  stopped  speaking  and  Joyce  was  unaccount- 
ably affected.  She  forgot  that  it  was  her  power 
that  had  done  this,  overlooked  entirely  that  he  had 


WICKSON  TELLS  OF  HIS  LOVE    229 

paid  an  unconscious  tribute  to  her  beauty  and  de- 
sirability, forgot  even  that  John  Wickson  was 
suffering  as  she  had  hoped  he  would  suffer.  She 
remembered  only  that  she  was  listening  to  the  most 
appealing  thing  in  the  world,  a  confession  of  weak- 
ness by  a  strong  man.  She  felt  that  she  must  say 
something  but  she  did  not  know  what  it  could  be. 
Then  Wickson  looked  up  quickly. 

"But  you  never  can  do  it  again,"  he  resumed, 
fiercely.  "Now  I  know  how  little  you  really  count 
in  my  life.  I  see  how  unimportant  you  are  to  me 
compared  to  what  I  owe  to  the  Company.'* 

"To  the  Company!"  exclaimed  Joyce,  invol- 
untarily. 

"Yes,  to  the  Company.  All  my  life  I  have 
known  that  I  was  serving  it  faithfully,  giving  it  all 
my  strength,  all  my  energy,  all  my  ability  to  win. 
Then  you  came.  For  the  first  time  I  forgot  it. 
I  sent  Boynton  off  to  Dease  when  he  should  have 
had  a  post  where  he  would  be  given  a  chance  to  do 
the  work  he  can  do  best.  When  I  knew  he  was 
in  trouble  I  let  him  get  out  the  best  he  could.  I 
wanted  him  out  of  the  way.  I  wanted  you. 

"Then  when  I  learned  you  had  gone  to  Dease 
I  started  after  you  at  once.  I  went  down  the 
shore  after  you,  and  I  was  going  to  take  you  back. 
And  then  you  did  the  second  thing  to  me.  You 
took  away  all  my  pride  in  my  ability  to  win 
through  myself,  made  me  a  coward,  a  weakling, 
ready  to  win  by  letting  Boynton  go  away  and  die 
in  the  storm  while  he  was  looking  for  you.  That 


230  PENITENTIARY  POST 

brought  me  to.  I  saw  what  I  had  become,  how  I 
had  failed  myself,  and,  worst  of  all,  had  failed  the 
Company.  I  resolved  to  win  back  everything  I 
had  lost. 

''That  morning  when  we  stopped  to  wait  for 
daylight  and  Boynton  wouldn't  go  on  and  kill 
Solomon  Moses,  I  was  beside  myself.  Your  life, 
my  life,  Boynton's  life,  nothing  counted  in  my  de- 
sire to  undo  the  wrong  I  had  done  the  Company. 
And  then  Boynton  said  that  which  explained  me 
to  myself.  He  said  I  thought  only  of  the  Com- 
pany, but  that  he  could  keep  his  balance.  And  I 
knew  at  once  that  he  was  right.  He  was  balanced. 
He  was  balanced  with  you  in  his  life.  I  wasn't 
and  I  never  could  be.  I  live  for  only  one  thing, 
the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  and  there  isn't  room 
for  anything  else  in  my  life.  I  thought  you  meant 
everything  to  me,  but  when  he  said  that,  I  saw 
that  you  never  could  mean  anything  worth  while. 
No  woman  can.  I  wasn't  made  to  be  influenced 
by  a  woman.  I  wasn't  made  to  share  anything 
with  one.  I  saw  that  as  soon  as  I  got  you  I  would 
forget  you.  I'd  go  back  to  my  first  sweetheart, 
the  only  one  I  ever  had  or  ever  will  have." 

Wickson  had  raised  himself  up  so  that  he  sat  on 
the  top  of  the  load.  His  face  was  more  gentle  than 
Joyce  had  ever  believed  it  could  be.  His  eyes  were 
lighted  as  are  only  those  of  a  man  who  tells  of  the 
biggest  thing  in  his  life.  He  seemed  transformed 
by  the  passion  of  an  ideal. 

"You  don't  know  what  it  means,"  he  continued. 


WICKSON  TELLS  OF  HIS  LOVE    231 

"You  can't  ever  know.  But  my  father  and  his 
father  were  brought  up  in  the  service  and  c'ied  in 
it.  I  have  never  known  anything  else.  It  has 
been  responsible  for  every  act  of  my  life.  It 
means  everything  to  me.  I'd  die  to-morrow  for 
it.  I'd  do  anything  to  serve  it.  I  slipped  once, 
when  you  came,  but  I'll  make  up  for  that.  I'll 
give  everything  I've  got,  everything  I  can  get,  to 
the  once  big  ideal  of  my  life.  It's  the  Company, 
the  men  in  the  Company,  and  the  memory  of  the 
men  who  have  made  it  what  it  is,  the  memory 
of  the  countless  ones  who  have  lived  and  died  for 
it,  that  I  love.  You!  I  only  thought  I  loved  you. 
There's  no  room  for  you  in  my  life.  I'm  not  built 
that  way.  Boynton  is.  He  can  love  you  and 
be  loyal  to  the  Company.  He's  balanced  when 
he  has  you  both.  I  lost  my  balance.  I  couldn't 
have  two  things  in  my  life.  Thank  God  I  saw 
it  in  time." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SOLOMON    GETS    HIS    MEAT 

ATER  Phil  had  left  Joyce  and  Wickson 
to  follow  more  slowly  and  had  gone  on 
alone  through  the  spruce  forest  he  began 
to  realize  the  difficulties  before  him.  As  hour  after 
hour  went  by  and  there  was  no  sign  of  the  Indian 
having  stopped,  or  of  his  camp,  misgivings  and 
anxiety  added  to  his  nervousness.  So  much  de- 
pended upon  his  success,  so  many  things  might 
bring  failure. 

Phil  knew  that  Solomon  expected  pursuit.  The 
Indian  could  tell  even  the  approximate  time  when 
the  dog  teams  would  reach  his  camp.  He  had 
gained  a  big  lead  by  travelling  night  and  day,  and 
there  would  be  plenty  of  time  for  him  to  destroy 
whatever  meat  he  had  or  to  double  back  beside 
his  trail  and  lie  in  ambush.  He  might  do  neither 
of  these  things  but  lead  his  pursuers  in  a  circle, 
crossing  and  recrossing  his  trail,  until  they  perished 
from  exhaustion  and  starvation. 

But  as  Phil  hurried  on,  driven  to  greater  speed 
by  the  necessity  of  quick  action,  fearful  of  every 
thicket  because  it  might  shelter  Solomon  and  his 
trade  gun,  an  encouraging  thought  came  to  him. 
The  Indian  would  reach  his  camp  tired  and  hungry. 

232 


SOLOMON  GETS  HIS  MEAT        233 

He  would  have  meat  there,  and  in  the  presence 
of  meat  he  could  not  maintain  his  caution  or  his 
sanity.  If  Phil  could  strike  his  camp  just  after 
one  of  these  debauches  his  work  would  be  easy. 

The  idea  brought  confidence  and  a  new  burst 
of  speed,  and  he  pressed  on  with  less  fear  of  an 
ambush.  He  became  more  and  more  certain  that 
he  would  find  Solomon  in  a  stupor  and  conse- 
quently was  wholly  unprepared  for  the  smell 
of  smoke  that  suddenly  came  to  his  nostrils. 

Instantly  he  stopped,  found  a  dead  branch  to 
lay  across  the  trail,  traced  his  message  in  the  snow, 
and  then  squirmed  into  the  brush  on  one  side  and 
began  to  work  his  way  forward.  But  as  he  slipped 
the  mitten  from  his  right  hand  and  let  it  dangle 
by  a  string  that  his  trigger  finger  might  be  ready 
he  remembered  his  promise  to  Joyce.  As  he  con- 
sidered it  he  found  that,  even  without  the  pledge, 
he  would  hesitate  to  shoot  the  Indian  in  cold  blood. 
Just  what  chance  for  his  life  he  would  give  Solomon 
he  had  not  decided  when  he  saw  the  wigwam  in 
an  open  spot  just  ahead  of  him. 

The  flap  over  the  door  was  down  and  smoke 
was  coming  from  the  hole  at  the  peak,  a  light, 
hazy  smoke  that  rose  swiftly,  evidence  of  a  bright 
fire  inside.  And  a  bright  fire  meant  that  Solomon 
was  awake,  alert. 

As  Phil  stood  there  in  the  brush  debating  his 
next  move  the  Indian  decided  it  for  him.  The 
flap  was  pushed  back  and  Solomon  crawled  out. 
As  he  rose  to  his  feet  he  listened,  looking  down 


234  PENITENTIARY  POST 

the  trail  by  which  he  had  come.  Then  his  eyes 
quickly  swept  the  edge  of  the  opening  until  they 
found  Phil. 

But  even  as  Phil  knew  that  he  was  discovered, 
even  as  his  lips  framed  the  words  in  Cree,  "stand 
still,"  Solomon  had  leaped  backward  and  disap- 
peared behind  the  wigwam.  Phil  sprang  forward 
at  once,  running  out  to  one  side  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  Indian  if  possible.  But  he  had  already 
reached  a  dense  thicket  a  few  yards  behind  his 
camp  and  had  disappeared. 

Phil  started  after  him  without  hesitation. 
Solomon  was  without  snowshoes  and  could  not 
go  far  before  he  was  overtaken.  But  the  man 
had  gone  through  the  middle  of  a  clump  of  tangled 
spruce  saplings  and  Phil  stumbled  and  tripped  and 
forced  his  way  with  difficulty. 

When  he  emerged  in  larger,  more  open  timber 
the  Indian  was  not  in  sight.  His  trail  was  plain, 
however,  and  Phil  started  after  him  confident  that 
he  could  soon  overtake  him.  The  spruce  became 
thinner  and  the  ground  began  to  rise  gradually 
until  he  burst  through  a  fringe  of  brush  and  came 
out  on  the  crest  of  a  low  ridge. 

Before  him  was  spread  out  a  great,  shallow  bowl, 
perhaps  two  hundred  yards  in  width  and  bare  of 
trees.  Here  and  there  were  small  clumps  of  brush, 
while  in  the  centre  the  ground  rose  gently  to  a  little 
knoll  that  was  cut  off  squarely  on  the  right. 

Running  straight  toward  this  knoll,  and  less 
than  one  hundred  yards  from  him,  was  Solomon. 


SOLOMON  GETS  HIS  MEAT        235 

Phil  raised  his  rifle,  intending  to  shoot  over  the 
man's  head,  but  even  as  his  eyes  lined  up  with  the 
sights  he  became  conscious  of  a  movement  on  the 
edge  of  the  bowl  at  his  right.  The  next  instant 
there  flowed  over  the  rim  and  down  toward  the 
centre  of  the  depression  a  herd  of  at  least  twenty 
caribou.  They  appeared  singly  and  in  pairs, 
bounding  through  the  snow,  stringing  down  the 
slope. 

As  Phil  watched,  too  startled  by  their  sudden 
appearance  to  act,  a  halt  in  Solomon's  flight  turned 
his  attention  again  to  the  Indian.  He,  too,  had 
seen  the  caribou,  and  instantly  he  ceased  to  be  the 
fugitive.  He  dropped  into  the  snow  and  crawled 
forward  swiftly.  His  shaggy  back  was  not  unlike 
that  of  a  great  bear  as  he  wallowed  along  in  the 
deep  drift,  while  the  stealth  of  his  actions  and  the 
quick,  alert  movements  of  his  head  gave  the  im- 
pression of  some  huge  beast  of  prey. 

Despite  the  deep  snow  and  the  steep  ascent, 
Solomon  reached  the  top  of  the  knoll  in  an  in- 
credibly short  time.  Not  once  had  he  turned  to 
see  if  he  were  pursued.  Not  once  had  his  atten- 
tion been  on  anything  except  the  approaching 
caribou.  At  the  edge  he  crouched,  tense,  expect- 
ant. And  then  as  the  first  of  the  herd  passed  be- 
neath him  he  sprang  out  and  down  upon  the  back 
of  the  leader,  a  big,  galloping  bull. 

If  Solomon  had  stalked  like  a  wolf  and  leaped 
like  a  bear,  he  assailed  his  prey  as  does  a  lynx  or 
mountain  lion.  Far  away  as  he  stood,  Phil  could 


236  PENITENTIARY  POST 

hear  a  snarl  and  a  shriek  as  the  caribou  went  down 
to  its  knees  and  the  two  rolled  over  and  over. 

For  a  moment  they  were  hidden  by  the  flying 
snow,  and  then  the  bull  emerged  from  the  smother, 
rearing  and  striking  and  trying  to  run,  snorting, 
wild  eyed,  driven  to  the  extreme  of  exertion  by  the 
strange  hairy,  malodorous  thing  that  clung  about 
its  neck. 

Solomon's  mania  when  eating  frozen  meat  was  as 
nothing  compared  with  his  frenzy  now  that  hot, 
dripping  flesh  was  within  his  grasp.  His  arms 
were  clasped  about  the  caribou  just  back  of  its 
head,  and  as  he  shrieked  and  roared  he  snapped 
again  and  again  at  the  long  ears,  tore  at  them  with 
his  teeth  until  the  blood  spurted,  clung  to  them, 
and  shook  them  as  a  terrier  does  a  rat.  Solomon 
was  after  his  meat.  He  had  found  the  caribou. 

As  Phil  recovered  from  his  amazement  and 
realized  that  the  Indian's  mania  had  driven  him  to 
attack  a  bull  caribou  bare-handed  he  started  at 
once  down  the  slope,  only  to  halt  when  still  within 
the  shelter  of  the  brush.  The  herd,  stopped  and 
startled  by  the  attack  upon  its  leader,  had  turned 
in  fresh  panic  and  plunged  through  the  deep  snow 
straight  toward  where  he  was  standing. 

Meat!  Life-giving,  strengthening,  saving  meat, 
was  within  his  grasp.  There  was  plenty  for  Joyce, 
plenty  for  him,  plenty  for  Wickson.  There  were 
three  big  meals  a  day,  not  two  slim  ones.  There 
was  food  for  the  dogs.  He  could  take  that  vigour 
and  strength  and  speed,  that  wild,  reckless  energy, 


SOLOMON  GETS  HIS  MEAT        237 

that  was  plunging  up  the  slope  toward  him, 
harness  it,  store  it,  use  it  to  gain  safety,  success, 
happiness. 

There  was  a  choking  sensation  in  Phil's  throat  as 
he  cocked  his  rifle.  Solomon  and  his  struggle  were 
forgotten.  There  was  a  smile  as  he  compared  his 
own  emotions  upon  seeing  the  herd  rush  toward 
him  with  the  Indian's  when  he  grasped  a  frozen 
chunk  of  meat  in  his  hands,  but  as  he  lifted  his 
rifle  and  aimed  at  the  largest  of  the  animals  he  was 
thinking  most  of  the  fact  that  the  luck  had  changed, 
that  he  was  freed  from  the  constant,  depressing 
nightmare  of  hunger. 

Once,  twice,  three  times,  he  fired.  Coolly, 
calculatingly,  painstakingly,  he  sighted  and  pulled 
the  trigger.  Without  hurry  or  excitement  he 
plunged  the  lever  down  and  back.  The  herd 
stopped.  Was  there  danger  everywhere?  Which 
way  next?  And  while  the  paralyzed  animals 
debated  Phil  fired  steadily  until  the  hammer 
clicked  on  an  empty  chamber.  The  gun  was 
empty,  but  he  had  dropped  four  caribou  with 
seven  shots.  Another  was  barely  crawling  away, 
would  never  reach  the  other  side  of  the  bowl. 

The  herd  had  turned  and  rushed  back,  and  now 
it  disappeared  over  the  opposite  ridge,  almost  in 
the  direction  in  which  it  had  come.  But  Phil 
did  not  see  the  last  of  them  go.  He  had  plunged 
down  the  slope  at  once  toward  the  battle  that  still 
raged  at  the  bottom. 

Had  the  bull  borne  his  antlers,  Solomon  Moses 


238  PENITENTIARY  POST 

might  have  had  a  chance.  The  fury  of  his  attack, 
the  strength  of  his  mania-driven  body,  the  utter 
disregard  for  injury  and  the  deep  snow  would  have 
gone  far,  with  the  leverage  of  the  horns,  to  bring 
the  caribou  to  his  knees.  He  might  possibly  have 
broken  its  neck. 

But  the  animal's  head  was  bare  except  for 
the  two  long  ears,  now  bloody  and  tattered,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  give  Solomon  a  secure  hold. 
Though  he  struck  and  slashed  with  his  feet  as  a 
lynx  slices  with  its  hind  claws,  he  accomplished 
nothing.  His  arms  were  clasped  about  the  bull's 
neck  and  he  could  not  let  go. 

As  Phil  started  toward  them  the  caribou's  terror 
had  begun  to  change  to  anger.  It  leaped  and 
whirled  so  that  the  Indian  was  dragged  through 
the  drifts  and  all  the  time  its  efforts  became  more 
fierce  and  more  varied  while  its  opponent's  strength 
was  obviously  shrinking. 

But  if  the  Indian's  vigour  diminished  his  spirit 
became  more  ferocious.  As  Phil  came  nearer  he 
could  hear  the  snarls  and  the  growls,  the  roars  of 
rage,  the  purely  animal  cries  of  a  beast  in  its 
greatest  ecstasy.  The  man  snapped  and  tore  with 
his  teeth,  striving  to  kill  by  sheer  fury  and  im- 
petuosity. His  attack  was  planless,  heedless, 
simply  a  blind,  snarling,  tearing,  snapping  on- 
slaught inspired  by  the  lust  for  flesh. 

Phil  halted  twenty  yards  away  and  began  slip- 
ping cartridges  into  his  rifle.  But,  with  his  weapon 
ready,  he  hesitated.  He  could  not  fire  into  that 


SOLOMON  GETS  HIS  MEAT        239 

swirling,  plunging  mass  and  be  sure  of  his  mark. 
There  was  no  justification  for  his  risking  himself 
by  going  closer. 

As  he  debated  what  he  should  do  one  of  the  bull's 
violent  lunges  finally  loosened  Solomon's  arms. 
The  Indian  hung  on  only  by  the  strong  grip  of  his 
teeth  in  a  tattered  ear.  But  as  he  hung  there, 
arms  groping  for  a  new  hold,  the  caribou  struck 
with  both  forefeet.  A  grunt  was  driven  from  Solo- 
mon's lungs.  His  teeth  tore  loose  from  the  dripping 
ear.  The  fur  flew  in  a  cloud  from  the  breast  of 
his  skin  coat  where  the  sharp  hoofs  had  struck, 
and  the  Indian  went  back  and  down  into  the 
snow. 

Instantly  the  bull  was  on  top  of  him,  bellowing 
its  rage,  stamping  and  tearing  and  ripping  with 
its  hoofs.  One  of  Solomon's  arms  struck  up,  but 
against  those  shod  flails  he  could  do  nothing.  In 
a  few  seconds  he  ceased  to  fight  back. 

Still  the  bull  continued  to  strike  and  trample, 
beating  and  slicing  the  now  inert  body.  In- 
voluntarily Phil,  his  rifle  forgotten,  let  out  a  roar 
of  protest.  The  bull  stopped,  looked  at  him, 
sniffed  the  air  and  then  loped  off  by  the  side  of 
the  bowl. 

As  Phil  started  forward  he  was  stopped  by  the 
report  of  a  gun  that  came  from  beyond  the  ridge. 
He  stared  unbelievingly,  only  to  hear  a  second, 
then  a  third  and  a  fourth.  Instantly  he  saw  the 
reason  for  the  flight  of  the  caribou.  They  were 
being  pursued  by  Indians  when  he  and  Solomon 


240  PENITENTIARY  POST 

had  met  them,  and  the  herd  had  been  turned  back 
upon  the  hunters. 

As  he  realized  what  the  shooting  meant  he  be- 
came dizzy  with  the  delight  of  it.  He  had  killed 
the  meat  they  needed.  Now  he  had  found  the 
guides  that  were  equally  essential  to  success. 
Messengers  to  bear  the  news  to  the  Fort  Dease 
hunters,  a  messenger  to  Fort  Berens,  some  one  to 
take  Wickson  back  to  Savant  House,  all  had  come 
at  once! 

And  the  weeteego,  the  cause  of  it  all!  Phil 
did  not  doubt  for  a  minute  that  Solomon  Moses 
was  dead  but  he  was  hardly  prepared  for  the 
battered,  bloody  unrecognizable  mass  of  flesh  and 
fur  that  lay  stretched  out  on  the  red  snow.  In 
those  brief  seconds  he  had  been  literally  torn  to 
pieces.  The  poor,  crazed  savage  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  his  own  lust  for  meat. 

Phil  turned  away  to  dispatch  the  fifth  caribou, 
which  still  floundered  slowly  up  the  side  of  the 
bowl.  He  cut  its  throat  and  those  of  the  other 
four,  and  when  his  task  was  finished  he  looked 
across  to  the  opposite  ridge  to  see  four  Indians 
standing  there  watching  him. 

That  night  the  Indians  camped  with  the  Hud- 
son's Bay  Company  people  at  Solomon  Moses' 
wigwam.  The  meat  had  been  dressed  and  hauled 
up.  The  hunters  had  seen  what  remained  of 
Solomon  Moses,  and,  though  they  never  knew  who 
he  was,  they  were  convinced  that  the  weeteego 
would  never  again  haunt  Fort  Dease. 


SOLOMON  GETS  HIS  MEAT        241 

Wickson  had  immediately  taken  care  of  opera- 
tions and  was  busy  planning  and  directing.  In 
the  morning  they  started  for  the  nearest  of  the 
Indians'  camps,  ten  miles  to  the  west,  and  the 
next  morning  two  of  the  men  went  out  with  the 
news  for  the  other  hunters  of  the  district  and  to 
get  additional  dogs  and  men. 

While  Wickson  chose  a  wigwam,  Phil  and 
Joyce  decided  to  cook  their  own  supper  in  the  open 
that  night,  and  it  was  around  the  campfire  that 
Phil  first  learned  of  what  the  district  manager 
had  said  to  Joyce  that  noon  on  the  trail. 

"Didn't  want  you!"  he  exclaimed  indignantly. 
"The  bear!  He  doesn't  know 

He  stopped.     Joyce  was  laughing. 

"You  would  rather  have  him  as  a  rival  than  con- 
temptuous," she  said. 

Then  she  became  suddenly  serious. 

"But  Phil,  it  was  a  greater  relief  to  me  than  to 
know  Solomon  Moses  was  dead,  than  to  know  we 
were  not  going  to  starve.  Don't  you  see?  A  man 
like  that,  a  man  who  is  governed  as  he  governs 
himself,  who  stops  at  nothing — why,  Phil,  I  would 
always  have  been  afraid  of  him,  even  with  you." 

He  did  not  resent  this,  for  he  knew  how  Joyce 
meant  it,  and  he  had  suddenly  found  that  he  had 
nothing  except  pity  for  Wickson. 

"Poor  devil,"  he  said  as  he  stared  at  the  fire. 
"What  a  lonesome  life  he  has." 

Joyce  smiled  but  she  did  not  dispute  him. 
After  a  long  silence  she  said: 


242  PENITENTIARY  POST 

"At  least  his  sweetheart  will  never  grow  old,  or 
fade,  or  be  moody." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Phil  indig- 
nantly. 

"Nothing  that  you  could  understand  in  your 
present  frame  of  mind.  But  there  is  something 
else  to  talk  about.  I  am  going  back  to  Savant 
House  with  Wickson." 

"With  him!  That  long  trip!  Joyce,  you 
can't!" 

"I  can,  and  I  must." 

"But- 

"I  signed  a  contract  with  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company  in  London.  I  agreed  to  do  certain 
things.  Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should  not 
fulfil  that  contract?  Is  there  any  reason  why  I 
should  not  be  as  loyal  to  the  Company  as  you  have 
been,  or  as  Wickson  is?" 

"But  you!  You  are  a  woman!  It  never  was 
expected.  Why  run  that  risk  for  a  fool  reason?" 

"Listen,"  she  commanded.  "I  told  you  about 
my  father,  how  he  had  to  leave  Canada,  how  I 
came  over  here  largely  because  I  felt  that  I  must 
live  the  life  for  him,  do  something  of  what  he  had 
to  give  up.  That  is  the  way  I  have  always  felt, 
that  it  was  not  I  but  Dad  who  is  here,  and  I  have 
tried  always  to  do  the  things  that  I  knew  he 
would  do.  Do  you  think,  otherwise,  I  would  have 
had  the  courage  to  make  that  journey  from  Savant 
House  to  Dease,  or  that  I  would  have  dared  to  go 
out  alone  to  find  you? 


SOLOMON  GETS  HIS  MEAT        243 

"No,  Phil,  I  have  my  own  ideals,  and  my  own 
obligations,  and  I  am  going  to  fulfil  them.  I  am 
going  back  to  Savant  House  and  give  those  chil- 
dren a  year's  schooling,  as  I  agreed  to  do.  I  have 
no  more  dread  of  returning  with  Wickson  than  I 
would  of  making  the  trip  with  my  own  father. 
And  you  have  enough  to  keep  you  busy  without 
being  burdened  with  me.  Only  you  must  ask 
Wickson  for  a  transfer.  I  know  he  will  give  it  to 
you.  In  the  summer  you  can  come  back  to 
Savant  House.  Then  I  will  be  yours,  not  the 
Company's." 

But  Phil  did  not  ask  Wickson.  That  night  the 
district  manager  summoned  him  to  the  wigwam. 

"  Boynton,  I  want  you  to  start  for  Berens  in  the 
morning,"  he  said.  "Take  two  teams  and  two 
men.  Get  supplies  there  and  be  ready  to  go  up 
the  bay  to  Fort  Dease  as  soon  as  the  ice  permits. 
And  as  soon  as  you  get  there  and  take  in  the  fur, 
start  the  Indians  up  the  Cut-Bank  to  get  timber 
for  new  buildings.  You  know  what  is  needed. 
Rebuild  the  fort." 

Phil  did  not  reply.  He  only  stared  at  Wickson 
while  anger  and  revolt  engulfed  him.  To  rebuild 
Fort  Dease  meant  that  he  must  remain  there 
another  year.  It  meant  that  he  would  not  see 
Joyce  for  eighteen  months.  It  meant  that  his  op- 
portunity to  do  the  work  he  could  do  best  was  put 
off,  perhaps  indefinitely.  It  meant  that  in  Wick- 
son's  mind,  it  was  still  Penitentiary  Post. 

But  the  youth  who  had  flaunted  his  contempt 


244  PENITENTIARY  POST 

in  the  face  of  Borthwick  the  winter  before  was 
not  there  in  the  wigwam  with  \\ickson.  Some- 
thing had  driven  out  the  heedlessness  and  the 
recklessness  and  the  impetuosity.  Something 
had  widened  his  vision,  had  tempered  his  ideas. 
Duty  and  responsibility  had  assumed  a  new 
significance.  They  were  no  longer  shadowed  by 
personal  desires  or  aversions. 

"Very  well,"  Phil  said,  and  he  turned  and  went 
out. 

The  first  of  July  Phil  arrived  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Cut-Bank  River,  at  the  site  of  what  had  been  Fort 
Dease.  The  supplies  were  unloaded  and  stored 
in  tents  brought  for  the  purpose.  Soon  afterward 
the  Indians  came  with  their  fur.  Phil  remembered 
their  debts  as  best  he  could  and  settled  accounts. 
Then  he  sent  the  entire  band  up  the  river  for 
timber  and  dispatched  the  boats  to  Fort  Berens 
with  the  fur  and  for  more  supplies.  For  the 
second  time  he  was  left  alone  in  monotonous, 
desolate  Penitentiary  Post. 

July  passed  and  August  came.  One  evening 
while  Phil  was  cooking  supper  before  his  tent  he 
heard  a  call  from  the  river  bank  and  rushed  out 
to  see  a  white  man  and  two  Indians  coming  toward 
him. 

"Hello,  Boynton,"  said  the  stranger  as  he  ex- 
tended his  hand.  "I'm  Morris,  from  Savant 
House.  Passed  your  Indians  with  the  rafts  several 
days  ago.  Here's  your  mail." 


SOLOMON  GETS  HIS  MEAT        245 

With  scant  courtesy  for  his  guest,  Phil  opened 
the  flat  bag  and  drew  out  two  letters.  One  was 
in  the  same  writing  that  he  had  found  that  March 
morning  upon  his  return  from  Solomon  Moses' 
shore  camp.  The  other  was  addressed  with  a 
typewriter  and  bore  the  seal  of  the  Company. 

"You'll  pardon  me,  old  man,"  he  managed  to 
say  as  he  tore  open  the  first  envelope.  "Long 
time  since  mail  day,  you  know."  Morris  grinned, 
knowingly. 

But  Phil  was  already  looking  at  the  letter.  The 
first  page  was  all  right,  the  tenth,  and  the  thirtieth. 
Joyce  was  safe. 

He  tore  open  the  second.  This  was  one  sheet, 
typewritten.  He  read: 

I  am  leaving  in  the  morning  for  the  Mackenzie 
River,  where  I  take  charge  of  a  new  district.  My 
successor  will  be  here  in  the  fall.  Before  leaving  I 
have  sent  Mr.  Morris  to  take  charge  of  Fort  Dease. 
You  are  to  return  at  once  to  Savant  House.  Mr. 
Osborne  has  obtained  a  transfer  to  a  post  on  the 
new  railroad  in  Ontario  so  that  he  may  send  the 
children  to  school.  You  are  to  succeed  him  as  manager 
here.  Please  act  upon  these  instructions  at  once. 

JOHN  WICKSON. 

P.S. — The  missionary  arrived  last  week  with  a  broken 
leg.  If  you  hurry  you  can  reach  here  before  he  is  able 
to  leave. 


THE  END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000110486     8 


